.-3 


f  LIBRARY    I 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 
!       SAN  DIEGO       j 


o 


A   YEAR  BOOK 


OF 


Kentucky  Woods  and  Fields 


INGRAM    CROCKETT 
Author  of  "  BKNKATH  Br.UK  SKIES  AND  ITRET' 


ILLUSTRATED  Ji  V  Till-:  A  I'TllOH 


BUFFALO 

OHAKLKS  WELLS  MOTTI.TON 
HI  01 


THE  WRNBORNE-SUMNEK   Co., 

PRINTHRS  AND  B(  K)KM  AK  I-RS, 

BUFFALO,  N.  Y. 


Ct  IJear  Book  of 
Kentucky  U)oo6s  an5 


Co  tfye  memory  of  Clububon 
anb  to  my  own  JDestern 
Kentucky  tDoobs  anb  ^ielbs 
that  knen?  him  for  arofytle. 


to  l^are   been  untl)  you 
3n  that  free  life  anfc  true, 
tPrjen  all  your  birbs  passeb  by 
llncer  tl]e  nem-tDorlb  sky. 


NOTE. 

Some  of  the  author's  verses  in  this  book  appeared 
originally  in  THE  YOUTH'S  COMPANION.  For  per 
mission  to  use  them  here,  due  acknowledgement  is 
made. 


JANUARY. 

FAR  through  the  woods  I  have  been  led  to-day — the 
quiet  woods  touched  here  and  there  with  pale  sun 
shine.  The  way  has  not  seemed  long,  nor  cold,  but 
rather  a  holy  way  along  which  I  have  walked  in 
peace  unspeakable.  For  the  trees  are  my  friends,  and 
their  presence  is  a  benediction.  Beloved  are  they  of  the 
night,  the  stars,  the  winds, — and  day  by  day  they  clothe 
themselves  in  new  beauty ;  and  upon  them  ever  lies  the 
grace  of  all  sweet  memories.  Memories  of  the  rain  that 
came  with  the  tender  April  sky — memories  of  many  a 
long,  bright  Summer  hour — memories  of  the  Fall,  when 
the  light  of  a  misty  sun  lingered  and  failed  on  the  hills, 
and  the  fallen  leaves  lay  in  all  the  winding  \vays. 

Now  like  pure  spirits  from  whom  have  fallen  the  gar 
ments  of  sensuousness,  leaving  the  finer  grace  of  resig 
nation — the  waiting  and  the  peace — how  still  my  brothers 
stand  in  gentle  meditation  !  Of  what  glorious  stature, 
one  in  thought,  their  arms  and  fingers  interlaced  along 
the  sky!  Each  with  his  own  strength,  each  leaning  to 
the  strength  of  the  other — a  brotherhood  harmonious 
whose  music  marks  the  march  of  the  years. 


6  JANUARY 

The  oaks  are  the  sturdiest  of  the  brotherhood.  The 
white  oak,  clad  in  silver-gray,  symmetrical,  with  droop 
ing,  sheltering  arms,  inviting  all  homeless  creatures  to 
rest  under  its  boughs.  Tough  are  its  muscles,  hardened 
by  sun  and  frost  for  a  hundred  years.  How  the  birds 
who  nest  far  above  the  earth  love  it,  and  now,  that  they 
are  gone,  it  still  holds  their  deserted  nests  in  its  arms  and 
waits  for  the  singing  of  their  love  songs  again.  The  love 
songs  of  the  birds  !  Dear  oak  would  that  I  could  have 
been  here,  on  a  day  long  gone,  with  him  who  loved  the 
birds,  who  rested  awhile  at  your  feet  to  hear  them  sing. 

The  ground  is  still  strewn  with  acorns  each  with  its 
folded  mystery  of  life.  The  acorns  of  the  white  oak  in 
pairs,  in  shallow  cups  slightly  serrated  at  the  edge,  best 
beloved  of  the  squirrels,  and  therefore  scarcest  of  all  the 
mast  at  this  season.  Shaken  down  like  hail  when  the 
Frost  Wind  came  by,  how  soon  they  will  mount  again  in 
new  and  tender  form — new  leaf,  new  life.  Alas  they  will 
never  be  permitted  to  become  even  saplings,  for  soon  the 
wood  shall  have  passed  away,  and  the  plow  have  pre 
pared  this  spot  for  the  seed  that  man  will  sow. 

The  passing  of  the  woods  !  I  hear  it  like  a  minor 
strain  running  through  all  the  joyous  music  of  earth. 
The  passing  of  the  woods !  The  fields  are  sad  with  the 
memory  of  a  mighty  dead.  Man,  who  spares  not,  will 
one  day  call  for  the  vanished  with  tears,  but  there  will  be 


JANUARY  7 

no  response,  no  return.  The  giants  gone  from  the  earth 
forever,  and  in  their  stead  a  race  of  pygmies  nurtured  by 
those  who  slew  the  nobler  ones.  O  trees  of  God!  O 
prophets  to  whom  are  known  the  secrets  of  the  seasons — 
is  there  none  to  honor  you  now.  Will  none  pause  before 
you  to  love  you — will  none  hear  your  voice  ?  Shall  not 
the  birds  plead  for  you  ?  The  woodpecker,  the  vireo,  the 
woodthrush,  the  flicker,  the  mocking-bird  ?  And  the  stars 
shall  they  not  speak  your  beauty — as  you  lift  your  hearts 
to  them  in  the  silence  of  the  night? 

Dark  is  the  black  oak,  with  great  knotted  limbs  reach 
ing  out  laterally.  Dark ,  and  knotted,  and  twisted — dome 
like,  tall.  Like  a  great  candelabrum  it  stands  in  early 
Spring,  each  pair  of  branching  diaphanous  leaves  having 
its  long  golden  tassel.  To-day,  perhaps,  it  dreams  of  its 
Springtime  beauty,  and  sees,  far-off,  the  rising  mist  of 
green. 

Scarlet  oaks,  pin  oaks,  overcups — they  are  all  here, 
and  with  them  the  tulip-tree,  tallest  of  the  throng — a 
Saul  among  the  tribesmen,  handsome  and  straight :  a  cup 
bearer  of  the  Gods  whose  golden  chalices  April  fills  with 
nectar.  Lift  your  soul,  O  my  brother,  and  rejoice  while 
you  may,  for  you  shall  be  first  to  fall,  though  upon  you 
first  the  light  of  morning  lies,  tracing  your  limbs  in  golden 
gray  along  the  dusky  hills. 

Scattered  through  the  wood  are  little  cedars — miniature 


8  JANUARY 

trees  with  fine,  thick  foliage  prickly  to  the  touch  ;  aro 
matic.  Year  after  year  they  have  stood  here,  apparently 
of  no  growth,  dwarfed  by  the  splendid  boles  about  them. 
What  rich  blue-green  they  wear !  What  legends  they 
suggest  of  lands  of  pine  !  And  through  the  white  days 
how  softly  the  snow  lies  upon  them,  bending  down  their 
boughs,  making  a  denser  shelter  for  the  birds,  the  spar 
rows,  that  stay  here  the  year  round. 

Now  along  the  wayside  there  is  scarce  a  trace  of  the 
tall  weeds  that  love  this  road,  that  grew  rank  here. 
Pokeweed,  ironweed,  ragweed,  horseweed  ;  tares  of  the 
field  that  men  cut  down  but  that  spring  up  again  and 
again,  that  cannot  be  wholly  plucked  up,  waiting  for  the 
Lord  of  the  Harvest.  Surely  we  have  need  of  them  for 
all  they  are  tares.  They  broider  the  way  with  beauty. 
Man  will  garner  enough  wheat  for  his  own  ends.  Nature, 
who  cares  no  more  for  man  than  for  a  weed,  will  see 
that  her  myriad  seeds  of  the  commonest  kinds  fall  into 
good  ground  and  bear  flower  and  fruit.  She  has  a  place 
for  the  magenta  of  the  ironweed  as  well  as  for  the  gold 
and  white  of  the  lily,  and  takes  thought  of  it  in  her  dark 
chambers  for  the  time  ot  the  awakening. 

The  dark  chambers  where  sleep  reigns,  where  no  light 
comes,  the  dwelling  place  of  seed  and  root,  the  under 
world  whence  shall  spring  the  countless  spears  and  ban 
ners  of  the  great  army  of  Beauty — wherein  no  voice  is 


JANUARY  9 

heard — where  silence  moves  upon  silence  working  out 
immortal  change — lifeward  and  deathward  forever. 


I  am  walking  to-day  along  the  river,  following  Beauty — 
far-off,  at  times  to  my  shame,  but  never  forgetting,  never 
untrue — seeking  her  revelation  of  all  that  ever  has  been, 
of  all  that  ever  shall  be.  There  is  no  higher  writing, 
only  our  eyes  are  dim  from  poring  over  books,  and  we 
cannot  read  the  writing  on  the  hills,  and  our  souls  are 
dull  to  the  rapture  and  the  glow.  We  seek  for  a  prophet 
and  behold  the  woods  and  fields  are  full  of  prophecies. 
The  fault  is  in  us.  Fire-flies  are  we  imagining  we  are 
greater  than  the  stars,  and  that  our  light  is  immortal 
while  theirs  shall  pass  away — little  creatures  who  fondly 
believe  that  the  universe  was  made  for  us,  and  that  color, 
odor,  flower,  tree,  stream,  frost,  cloud,  are  for  our  delight 
only,  and  have  no  meaning  apart  from  us. 

How  dark  the  river  is — bearing  broad  islands  of  drift 
wood  gulfward ;  its  waves  white-capped  and  heavy  with 
sand  washed  down  with  the  flood. 

Here  the  river  way  is  wide  and  low — fringed  with  wil 
lows,  flexible  keepers  of  the  shore,  whose  greenish-yellow 
bodies  bend  and  interlace  and  catch  the  alluvial  sediment 
and  so  build  out  and  out  until  the  course  of  the  river  is 
changed.  Now  they  are  packed  with  brush  and  small 


io  JANUARY 

trees,  cornstalks,  weeds,  and  heaps  of  spongy  yellow 
foam. 

Constant  the  year  round  the  cardinal  flashes  by,  a 
splendid  bit  of  color  against  the  gray.  The  great  warp 
of  earth  and  sky  shot  through  with  a  strand  of  matchless 
red.  The  lifeless  warmed  by  the  living — the  terrible 
beauty  of  the  hurrying  tawny  waves  softened  by  a 
tenderer  note. 

Call,  my  cardinal !  My  heart  hears  and  answers  you. 
Could  you  but  understand  me,  could  I  but  whistle  to 
you  a  flute  note  so  tender  that  you  would  know  and 
come  to  me  that  we  might  speak  face  to  face  in  this 
Wintry  time — what  communion  would  be  ours — what 
dreams  of  the  Golden  Age  when  men,  birds,  and  beasts 
shall  be  at  peace — when  on  them  shall  fall  the  perfect 
light  of  Love. 

Sing,  my  cardinal  !  The  angry  river  shall  be  caught  up 
far-off,  in  tender  mist  and  brought  back  rainbowed  about 
you  and  your  mate  in  April's  nesting  time.  Sing  to  the 
river  and  the  sky  how  great  is  love  !  Love  lifting  the  river, 
drawing  down  the  sky,  until  they  are  one ;  transfigured — 
wearing  garments  dazzling — of  marvelous  loveliness. 

And  yet  the  sky,  to-day,  for  all  'tis  dark,  is  beautiful. 
There  are  flashes  of  silvery  and  pale  blue  light  through 
the  broken  grays.  Flashes  that  strike  down  like  shafts, 
smite  the  woods  and  the  river  and  are  lost. 


JAXUARY  ii 

And  what  Ishmaelites  are  the  clouds.  Advancing, 
retreating,  circling,  passing  on  into  the  illimitable  desert 
beyond.  One  day,  when  the  robin  sings,  a  gentler  troop 
of  nomads  will  come  along  the  blue — their  white  tents 
gleaming  in  the  sun. 


Nightfall  and  the  afterglow  :  the  woods  dark  on  the 
horizon,  the  fields  silvery  with  frost;  the  sky  a  revelation 
of  the  innumerable  shining  company  that  stands  in  the 
presence  of  the  Lord  of  all  the  Earth.  From  horizon  to 
zenith  they  stand — their  wings  touching — led  by  the 
flaming  Cherubim.  O  Trappist  tree  dark-cowled  before 
them — O  host  of  purity!  O  type  of  sin! 

Far  through  the  quiet  the  scattered  quail  call.  A 
light  twinkles  low  in  a  space  of  clear  sky  near  the  horizon 
—Night's  first  star  that  brightens,  brightens,  calling  out 
its  brothers  in  service  as  the  angels  of  the  after-glow 
withdraw  into  heaven.  The  blur  of  dusk  comes  upon 
the  fields.  The  sky  line  grows  softer,  and  about  it  a 
faint  roseate  light  lingers.  The  earth  chill  rises  with  a 
frosty  odor.  One  last  call  of  a  quail  like  a  flute-note 
heard  in  dreams,  and  Night  has  fallen. 

Let  me  stand  face  to  face  with  Night.  She  has  but 
one  voice  now — the  voice  of  silence.  By  and  by  she  will 
speak  with  a  thousand. 


12  JANUARY 

Let  me  stand  face  to  face  with  the  silence  of  night 
here  in  the  Wintry  fields  when  the  sparrows  are  gone 
to  rest,  when  men  are  safely  housed  from  the  cold, 
when  on  the  thick  tufts  of  broom-grass  one  may  lie  as 
on  a  bed — oh,  the  mystery  of  it  all !  This  solid  earth  a 
point  of  light  amid  innumerable  lights  — a  frost  crystal 
on  the  fields  of  space — changing,  changing,  changing — 
a  flower,  a  star,  a  shadow,  a  bubble  on  the  ocean  of  God. 

And  now  the  broom-grass  begins  to  whisper.  I  am 
lying  close  to  its  heart.  So  it  keeps  its  secrets  from  those 

who  pass  it  by — and  reveals  them  to  all  who  love  it. 
• 

The  broom-grass  is  the  heather  of  these  Western  Ken 
tucky  hills,  full  of  color,  beautiful  in  all  its  growth. 
Dark-green  at  first,  it  springs  up  by  Fall  in  tall  feathery 
plumes  that  stand  tawny  and  purple  through  the  Winter. 
The  frost  cannot  cut  it  down — the  snows  but  gather  in 
its  tops  and  drift  over  it  for  a\vhile — the  sleet  leaves  it 
unharmed.  Touched  by  thewrinds  of  January  it  dimples 
and  waves,  now7  silvery,  now  faded  yellow,  now  purple, 
now  luminous  in  the  sunshine,  now  cold  in  the  shadow 
— rioting  in  color,  sweeping  on  to  the  edge  of  the  wood. 

But,  unlike  the  heather,  the  broom-grass  is  unsung. 
The  farmers  have  no  use  for  it — it  is  only  broom  sage 
— a  good-for-nothing  unconquered  by  the  plow — a  de 
generate  impoverishing  the  hills,  crowding  out  from  the 
fence  corners — planting  a  plume  here  and  there  until  the 


JANUARY  13 

hills  are  covered.  And  so  the  broom-grass  is  unsung  of 
man  but  not  forgotten  by  the  meadow  lark.  Winter  and 
Summer  he  sings  of  it,  his  home,  the  home  of  his  loved 
one — of  his  nestlings.  The  Winter  song  of  the  meadow 
lark — how  like  a  voice  out  of  spirit  land  ;  a  call  of  some 
gentle  spirit  to  a  companion  spirit  pent  in  the  flesh !  Oh, 
the  yearning,  the  yearning,  when  that  voice  comes  at 
nightfall  across  the  fields  !  The  world  slips  away — the 
border  land  is  reached — one  lost  awhile  is  there  on  the 
broad  meadows  of  God. 


To-day  the  snow  has  fallen — the  second  snow  of  the 
Winter,  light  and  feathery.  How  delicate  are  the  six- 
pointed  stars  of  its  crystals — blossoms  of  infinite  grace 
that  cling  to  the  blossomless  trees  and  grasses  of  the 
dark  earth.  Far  through  the  upper  air  I  watched  their 
coming — no  gleam — no  break  in  the  strange  wilderness 
of  gray  whence  they  came — down,  down,  down  cease 
lessly — transforming  the  woods,  changing  the  tone  of 
the  fields  from  purple  to  white ;  clothing  the  slender 
bushes  and  weeds  with  fluffiness — melting  into  the  river 
without  a  sigh — without  a  trace — each  flake  a  marvel  of 
beauty,  counting  itself  nothing  in  the  great  sum  of  beauty 
— doing  the  will  of  God. 

The  White  Earth !     The  flakes   have  ceased  to  fall, 


I4  JANUARY 

and  with  the  passing  of  the  snow  clouds  it  is  not  the  old 
earth  but  a  new  earth  that  greets  us.  No  longer  a  light 
absorber  it  reflects  the  light,  bluish-white,  dazzling.  The 
pond  in  the  field  is  dark — the  woods  are  masses  of  cold 
purple — the  familiar  road  is  a  patchwork  of  gray  and 
white.  A  disintegration  and  blending  of  light.  Mil 
lions  of  prisms  scattering  colors  that  reunite  in  wondrous 
brilliancy. 

There  is  nothing  in  all  nature  more  delicate  in  color 
than  the  shadows  of  the  snow.  The  softest  blue  imagin 
able — as  tender  as  the  deeps  in  the  bluest  sky.  But 
this  color  is  not  seen  by  the  casual  on-looker.  One 
must  stand  for  awhile  and  gaze  steadily  past  the  jeweled 
crests  into  the  dimples  of  the  snow — there  it  lies,  the  eyes' 
delight. 

And  with  what  rhythmical  curves  the    snow  lies  upon 

the  earth ! 

"  God  011  His  throne  is  eldest  of  poets, 
Unto  His  measure  moveth  the  whole!  " 

So  moves  the  snow,  taking  its  place  silently  in  the 
eternal  circle.  Curves  by  the  river,  curves  by  the  brook, 
curves  over  the  angles  of  the  rail  fence,  curves  over  and 
under  the  little  scrub  oaks  with  their  curled  leaves  heaped 
with  white — so  comes — so  passes  the  snow. 

This  morning  in  the  rose  of  the  dawn  light,  I  walked 


JANUARY  15 

fieldward  over  the  snow  that  had  become  crusty  by  a  day's 
sun  and  freeze.  I  trod  on  jewels.  All  the  prismatic 
colors  flashed  from  the  hills.  The  ghost  of  the  old 
moon  haunted  the  western  treetops.  In  the  east  there 
was  no  splendor  of  cloud,  as  is  often  seen  on  a  Summer's 
dawn,  but  a  quiet  unfolding  of  crystalline  light,  deepening 
into  day.  The  sky  was  unprofaned  by  smoke,  and  only 
some  sparrows  and  a  flicker  or  two  were  with  me  in  the 
unforgetable  beauty  of  that  hour. 


FEBRUARY. 

TO-NIGHT  I  hear  the  call  of  wild  geese  floating 
down  from  the  starlit  silence — the  unexplored  depths. 
Their  leader  is  apparently  confused,  not  steadily  wedging 
way  northward,  but  circling — now  near  the  earth — now 
up  again,  while  his  followers,  at  intervals,  answer  his  call 
clamorously. 

There  is  much  water  in  the  fields  and  the  geese  are 
doubtless  seeking  some  quiet  haven  for  the  night,  some 
slough  of  the  cornfields  where  they  can  find  food — and 
be  at  rest.  Soon  they  will  drop  silently — shadows  into 
shadow — where  the  gaunt  trees  of  the  deadening  keep 
watch. 


Over  all  the  woods  and  fields,  this  morning,  lies  a 
heavy  mist  charged  with  sunlight.  High  on  a  hill  before 
me  a  tall,  slender  sweetgum  thrusts  his  bare  arms  into 
clearer  light,  but  his  companion  trees  are  muffled  in  pearl 
and  blue  fringed  with  gold.  And  out  of  the  mist  come 
the  robins — a  big  flock  of  them — trooping  to  the  black- 
gums  where  the  berries  hang  thick — laughing,  a  high 


FEBRUARY  17 

shrill  laughter,  crying:  ''Peep,  peep,  peep,  peep\" 
Crowding  the  limbs,  darting  up  and  down  in  ecstacy — 
madcaps  with  Spring  in  their  blood — while  over  the 
way  one  sings  a  Spring  song — a  troubadour  lilt  to  the 
wake-robin  and  the  first  yellow  violet. 

Now  and  again  the  robins  seem  to  winter  here,  and 
may  be  seen  by  twos  and  threes  and  in  flocks — cheery 
notes  and  bits  of  color  on  the  darkest  days.  But  some 
months  they  vanish  altogether,  and  the  Winter  fields 
miss  their  presence  and  their  song. 


O  woods  that  call  me  out  from  town  to-day !  O  woods 
that  cluster  round  a  quiet  water,  mirror  of  the  sky — 
where  loiters  many  a  dream,  and  Mystery  stoops  for  a 
glimpse  of  her  face  in  the  heavenly  deep.  O  woods 
my  soul  salutes  you  !  I  lie  at  your  feet. 

Around  the  pond  the  reflection  of  the  sycamores, 
pecans,  gums,  is  like  loosely  woven  fringe  trembling 
into  the  depths.  Trees  a  hundred  yards  off  are  reflected 
as  faithfully  as  those  on  the  bank.  Some  of  the  branches 
in  reflection  move  upward  with  a  twisting,  augur- 
like  movement.  The  water  is  never  still  even  here  where 
no  wind  touches  it — for  bubbles  rise  from  the  bottom, 
burst  and  circle  out  in  fine  rings  over  the  smooth  surface 
of  the  pond.  There  is  an  almost  imperceptible  current 


1 8  FEBRUARY 

near  the  shore  in  which  a  little  white  moth,  strange  sur 
vivor  of  Summer,  is  whirled  about,  and  often,  with  a 
series  of  bubbles,  the  whole  face  of  the  pond  is  wrinkled. 

What  inexpressible  beauty  there  is  in  the  "still  waters'' 
of  the  Psalmist.  The  still  waters  where  the  tenderer 
flowers  of  the  soul  blossom — the  dwelling-place  of  Peace. 

And  what  inexpressible  natural  beauty  there  is  in  these 
still  waters  this  February  day !  What  delicate  blending 
of  local  and  reflected  color  !  Darkening  the  color  of  the 
reflected  sky,  of  the  trees,  of  the  overhanging  banks — the 
water  is  itself  apparently  a  soft  brown.  A  bush,  light 
gray  on  the  bank,  is  dark  gray  in  reflection  :  the  pencil- 
ings  of  the  clouds  less  sharply  defined  in  the  sky  beneath 
than  in  the  sky  above.  And  when  the  stars  come  here, 
how  gently  they  must  shine  from  this  under-world — as 
gently  as  the  shining  of  a  holy  life. 

And  how  lovely  are  the  banks  of  the  pond  mossed  in 
green  and  brown.  Mosses  woven  in  and  out  among  the 
tree  roots  with  gray  and  mottled  lichens — earth  carpetings 
of  incomparable  beauty  spread  everywhere  along  the  quiet 
ways  of  Nature,  protecting  them,  mingling  tones  of  green, 
gray,  brown  for  the  feet  of  men,  of  squirrels,  of  birds  ; — 
for  the  feet  of  the  passing  Seasons. 


To-day  a  fine  pebbly  snow  has  fallen,  and  has  been 


FEBRUARY  19 

whirled  along  into  little  drifts — but  not  a  particle  has 
clung  to  the  trees,  whose  dark  limbs  are  tossing  and 
swaying  in  the  wind.  How  different  the  effect  of  these 
"hard"  snows  from  that  of  the  "soft"  snows  of  warmer 
days  !  The  soft  snow  falls  silently — its  flakes  lighter  than 
down  ;  the  hard  snow  falls  swiftly,  hissing  and  rattling 
through  the  trees  and  rolling  in  great  brilliancy  along  the 
earth. 

This  afternoon  the  sunlight  is  clear  gold  and  I  am  out 
on  the  brilliant  snow.  The  air  sparkles  like  fine  cham 
pagne.  Frost  crystals  dance  about  me  and  gleam  along 
the  twigs  of  the  maples  in  arabesque.  Long  lilac  shadows 
stretch  across  the  unbroken  glades  of  white — pink  tints 
glow  on  every  crest.  All  out-of-doors  is  like  a  great 
bell  full  of  sweet  vibrations  from  the  hammer  of  the  cold. 
The  wheels  of  a  passing  wagon  ring  musically  along  the 
beaten  road.  The  snow  crunches  beneath  my  feet  at 
every  step  with  a  note  of  buoyancy.  A  woodpecker  taps 
the  springy  march  of  lustiness,  and,  answering,  my  heart 
beats :  "  On  and  on — out  to  the  gods  of  Youth,  Health, 
Power  !  " 

Following  the  call  I  am  come,  with  the  sun  a  little 
space  above  the  horizon,  to  a  fairy  land — a  land  strewn 
with  diamonds  and  turquoise.  All  along  the  way  I  have 
seen  and  read  the  hieroglyphs  of  the  birds — the  record, 
so  full  of  interest,  of  flicker,  cardinal,  junco,  sparrow, 


20  FEBRUARY 

robin,  crow,  and  ot  that  ne'er-do-weel,  the  blue-jay.  I 
have  noted,  too,  places  of  tragedy — of  struggle  of  life 
against  life  that  goes  on  unceasingly. 

Nevertheless  I  am  come  to  a  peaceful,  a  beautiful 
land.  I  who  must  have  my  tragedies — who  must  leave 
a  writing  of  my  way  across  the  fields  of  life — am  come 
to  a  shining  place  of  lilac,  blue,  pink  and  gold. 

For  the  edges  of  all  the  little  eddies  and  depressions  in 
the  snow  are  bright  gold,  and  in  all  the  shadows  is  a  lovely 
blue.  Looking  down  through  half-closed  eyes  I  see  at 
my  feet  a  mid-summer  sky  flecked  with  clouds  of  shining 
amber.  Heaven  below  me  as  above  me — I  a  mote  in 
the  immortal  light  of  Beauty. 

The  sun  like  a  good  prophet  comes  with  the  promise  of  Spring. 
While  yet  all  the  fields  are  in  white  and  no  brooks  sing. 

So  sings  my  heart  this  evening  before  the  woodland 
where  the  topmost  twigs  are  netted  in  delicate  tracery 
against  a  pink,  rose-golden  and  purple  sky.  The  tints 
are  so  perfectly  blended,  so  luminous,  that  the  effect  is 
beyond  words,  beyond  art  to  express.  Silence  only  can 
stand  before  it — can  interpret  it.  "God  is  in  His  Holy 
Temple  ;  let  all  the  earth  keep  silence  before  Him." 

Flocks  of  black-throated  sparrows  whir  up  before  me 
in  a  road  cut  deep  through  sandy  hills  that  buttress  the 


FEBRUARY  21 

lowlands  of  the  river.  The  sparrows  are  feeding  on  the 
hack  berries  along  the  way,  and  their  notes  are  very 
sweet — a  sort  of  musical  chatter  with  minor  cadences — the 
half  sad,  half  merry  music  of  a  banquet  where  there  are 
no  bidden  guests,  but  where  he  "  who  loveth  best "  is 
always  welcome. 

There  is  another  music,  no  less  charming  to  me,  among 
these  hills — the  music  of  the  scrub-oak  leaves  touched 
lightly  by  the  wind.  These  trees  do  not  obey  the  Fall. 
Their  leaves  turn  a  rich  dark  red  or  maroon,  but  they 
cling  to  the  boughs  during  the  Winter,  and  until  they  are 
pushed  off  by  the  swelling  buds  of  Spring.  They  are 
like  fine  grained  leather  now,  curled  and  crisp,  and  their 
rustling  is  peculiarly  melodious  :  the  longing  of  the  Wind 
— the  response  of  a  sympathetic  aeolian. 

Close  at  hand  grows  the  blue  ash,  lichened  from  the 
ground  to  its  middle  limbs.  Lichens,  the  parti-colored 
seals  of  many  years  come  and  gone,  attesting  their  herit 
age  here.  Lichens  like  the  random  brush  marks  of 
some  master  of  mellow  color  who  paused  here  once  on 
a  day — a  master  of  blues,  grays,  browns — painting  with 
a  brush  given  him  by  a  sun  and  rain  crowned  Morning — 
beautiful  with  tenderest  beauty. 

Everywhere  about  me  low  tones  predominate.  The 
willows  are  soft  yellow-green.  The  old  rail  fence  is  light 
gray,  broken  with  brown.  The  broom-grass  is  full  of 


22  FEBRUARY 

rich  purple,  of  silvery  tints.  The  earth  banks,  disinte 
grated  by  freezes,  thaws  and  showers,  and  like  diminutive 
avalanches  among  the  roots  that  overhang  the  road,  are 
Indian  yellow  stained  with  dull  red.  There  is  not  a 
flaming  color  in  earth  or  sky,  from  this  point  of  view  ; 
and  yet  there  is  no  sombreness  about  the  picture.  In 
stead  it  is  a  restful  pleasure  to  the  eye — a  meditation 
before  which  one  who  loves  the  colorist  will  stand  with 
uncovered  head. 


This  hillward  path  reveals  beauty  after  beauty  to-day. 
A  wonderfully  rich  sky — the  sunlight  warming  the  purple 
of  the  ragweed  fields — the  meadow-larks  like  winged 
flutes  softly  blown.  I  am  following  in  the  steps  of  the 
great  bird  lover — up  the  river,  out  across  the  hills  into 
the  broad  levels  of  the  uplands — doubtless  in  his  day  a 
noble  forest.  Now  the  plant  beds  for  tobacco  are  being 
burned,  and  the  smoke  of  their  burning  tells  of  the  pass 
ing  of  oak,  gum,  ash,  hickory,  poplar.  The  fragrant 
smoke !  The  soul  of  the  wood  melting  into  the  universal 
beauty. 

Toward  the  west  there  is  a  belt  of  woods  that  makes  a 
dark,  fringed  sky  line,  above  which  the  sky  is  silver- 
fleeced  and  golden  barred.  Northward  the  colors  are 
purple  and  greenish-blue,  with  pools  of  ultra-marine  in 


FEBRUARY  23 

the  wool-pack.  And  the  little  pools  by  the  wayside  are 
no  less  rich  in  color.  Even  their  muddiest  water  catches 
some  of  the  splendor  above,  as  in  the  most  defiled  soul 
there  are  glimpses  of  heaven. 

Suddenly  the  sun  enters  a  long  cloudless  space  of  green 
lying  between  purple  clouds  and  the  horizon  line,  and 
the  fields  are  flooded  with  intense  yellow  light :  a  splen 
dor  that  lights  the  woodland — penetrating  into  its  depths, 
bringing  out  in  strong  relief  bole,  limb,  and  twig.  A 
rail  fence  at  the  edge  of  the  woodland,  wet  with  melting 
frost,  turns  to  glistening  yellow — the  shadows  on  it  blue. 
Far-off  the  woods  are  olive  gray,  and  the  snow  patches 
on  the  hillsides  are  bathed  in  pale,  lustrous  gold.  Surely 
this  is  a  mount  of  transfiguration  ! 

Ah,  the  redbird  singing  !  The  beauty  of  the  sky  in 
tensifying  the  beauty  of  his  breast.  Song  and  color — 
mysteries  that  lift  me  and  bear  me  on  I  know  not  whither, 
far  through  the  wonder  of  the  afterglow. 

Marvelously  the  light  came — as  marvelously  it  fades. 
Now  a  rose  flush  on  the  higher,  darker  clouds ;  now 
brighter  gold  at  the  edge  of  the  cloud  line  ;  now  patches 
and  shreds  of  flaming  gold  in  the  pale,  clear  green  ;  now, 
as  the  sun  sinks,  pink,  cold  purple,  brilliant  carmine  : 
carmine  that  burns  across  the  hills  in  red  fire,  that  creeps 
up  the  trees,  steeping  their  twigs  in  its  glory,  that  fades 
not  as  I  watch,  though  all  the  other  colors  of  the  sky  are 


24  FEBRUARY 

darkened,  that  seems  as  if  it  might  remain  holding  back 
the  night,  making  darkness  its  slave  forever. 

Yet,  O  glorious  light,  you — even  you  must  obey  the 
law  of  change.  A  dark  finger  pushes  up  against  your 
luminous  shield :  the  finger  of  Fate.  To-day,  on  these 
darkening  hills  you  have  cast  your  last  radiance.  To 
morrow — 

At  this  time  of  the  year  the  earth  is  like  a  lute  that 
trembles  with  the  first  light  prelude  of  a  master.  Under 
the  leaves  are  found  the  poems  of  Spring — the  earliest 
editions  very  delicately  bound — wake  robins,  white  hearts, 
violets.  The  woods  and  fields  are  waiting  to  welcome 
the  bluebird  and  the  sugarbird — the  first  with  his  trually , 
trually,  trually  !  the  dearest  song  of  all ;  the  second  with 
his  insistent  call  for  Peter,  Peter,  Peter!  Blades  of  green 
peep  up  through  the  brown.  The  dormant  sap  begins 
to  dream.  The  maples  take  on  slowly  a  fuzzy  red.  The 
purple  grackles,  the  cowbirds  begin  to  swing  in  the  tree- 
tops;  and  by  the  pond  "looking  through  glass  windows" 
may  be  heard  hyla — a  feeble  peep,  peep,  that  hushes  for 
the  nearing  foot. 

I  have  heard  it — the  Spring  song  of  the  Flicker  ! 
"Quick,  quick,  quick,  quick !  "  All  day  long  it  has  rung 
across  the  fields — a  lusty  love  call. 


FEBRUARY  25 

And  the  bluebird  is  come !  I  have  not  seen  him  but 
I  have  heard  him  somewhere  above  me,  and  with  him  are 
many  memories  of  orchards  in  bloom — of  the  spring  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill — of  the  log  house  with  its  clapboard 
roof  weather-stained  and  curled — of  the  hollow  in  the 
gatepost  where  I  knew  he  would  build  his  nest  and  greet 
me  with  a  love  song — of  the  great  log  barn  at  the  edge 
of  the  wood,  its  floor  white  with  saltpetre  from  accumu 
lated  tobacco  stalks,  and  where  he  was  sure  to  be  flying 
in  and  out  between  the  logs,  making  music  with  the  pur 
ple  martin  under  the  rafters — all  these  memories  come 
with  the  first  note  of  his  song — the  simple,  homely  life 
of  which  he  is  the  poet. 

For  a  while  the  bluebird  left  us — for  three  or  four 
Springs — and  from  many  parts  of  the  country  bird-lovers 
lamented  him.  "  Oh,  to  see  him  again  !  Oh,  to  hear 
his  song!"  So  the  threnody  ran  through  the  land. 
Now  he  has  proved  himself  unforgetful  of  us  :  he  is  con 
stant  as  of  old.  Singer  of  the  blue — wearing  its  colors — 
melodist  of  Faith. 


Weave,  weave,  weave,  with  fingers  deft  and  slim, 

O  maples  tall  against  the  sunset  sky, 
A  cradle  robe  of  witchery  soft  and  dim 

In  which  the  nestlings  of  the  dreamer  Wind  may  He. 

The  oriole  is  come,  singing  his  good-night  song  to  the 


26  FEBRUARY 

new  moon  low  in  the  west.  Gently  the  maples  weave 
in  the  sunset  colors  upon  the  loom  of  quiet.  Weaving  in 
the  bright  threads — the  crimson,  the  gold — weaving  in 
the  pale  yellow,  the  cold  purple,  the  gray.  Weaving 
in  the  stars — the  early  stars,  lilies  of  the  garden  of  Night. 
Weaving  in  the  oriole's  song — the  shadows — silence — 
sleep. 


MARCH. 

THIS  morning  the  old  moon  is  hanging  in  the  treetops, 
a  curled  and  silvery  feather,  and  at  its  side  a  little 
dewdrop  star  trembling  with  light.  The  eastern  horizon  is 
netted  with  twigs — dark  gray  and  rose-gold.  The  ground 
is  frozen.  March  the  fickle  has  turned  his  back  on  Spring. 

Now  is  the  time  to  watch  for  the  advance  couriers  of 
the  birds,  and  to  ponder  the  mystery  of  their  coming. 
Along  the  highways  of  the  air  far  beyond  the  range  of 
the  naked  eye  they  have  traveled  by  day,  by  night  across 
seas  and  lakes — following  the  rivers — looking  for  their 
appointed  nesting  place,  the  home  of  their  love  making 
for  years.  Coming,  coming !  The  timid  by  night,  the 
bold  by  day — until  their  eyes  and  hearts  greet  the  wel 
coming  hills,  the  familiar  tree,  the  sheltering  covert.  And 
then  the  song  that,  like  an  old-fashioned  hardy  flower, 
speaks  to  us  from  the  looked  for  haunt. 

What  a  flight  is  theirs — warblers,  thrushes,  vireos  ! 
Below,  above  their  little  bodies  the  deep  of  night  !  The 
clouds  to  confuse  ;  the  gleaming,  man-saving  light  of 
some  stormy  coast  to  lure  them  to  death.  On  and  on  in 
silence,  their  wing  beats  marking  time  for  the  advancing 


28  MARCH 

season — by  twos,  by  threes,  by  hundreds,  over  the  sleep 
ing  earth,  the  lifted  shadow  of  trees,  the  mist  trails  of 
rivers.  Stopping  day  by  day  for  food,  but  with  one  pur 
pose  urging  them  ever — one  strange  longing  for  a  certain 
place  where  their  mates  shall  be  chosen,  their  vows  be 
said,  their  young  reared. 

Are  the  pewees  and  blackbirds  I  hear  this  morning 
just  come?  It  is  impossible  to  tell.  They  may  have 
been  here  for  a  week,  awed  into  silence  by  the  winds  and 
the  hordes  of  wild  clouds  rushing  across  the  sky — afraid 
to  launch  their  tiny  boats  of  song  on  such  a  rough  sea. 
I  know  only  that  till  the  frost  is  gone  there  are  pauses  jn 
the  music — one  day  the  choristers  hid — not  a  note  ;  the 
next  day,  with  the  waving  of  a  baton  of  sunshine,  a  look 
of  the  master,  the  symphony  of  Spring  breathes,  rings 
through  wood  and  field. 


March,  for  all  its  bluster,  has  golden  days.  This  is 
one.  The  more  charming  in  contrast  with  the  hurly- 
burly  yesterdays  of  the  month.  To-day  my  friend  the 
cardinal  is  making  love.  I  can  hear  him  now  pleading  : 
"Sweet,  sweet,  sweet — do,  do,  do!  "  and  I  catch  a  glimpse 
of  him  dropping  like  a  splendid  flower  into  the  ravine 
where  his  sweetheart  waits.  The  mist  scarfs  are  wound 
about  the  hills  and  trail  in  the  river.  The  track  of  the 


MARCH  29 

sun  on  the  water  is  flame-color,  over  which  wild  ducks 
skim ;  and  on  the  horizon  the  long,  dark,  graceful  lines 
of  their  kindred  waver  toward  the  west. 

In  sheltered  places  the  first  Spring  Beauties  begin  to 
show.  Soon  they  will  cover  the  hills  with  pink,  white, 
lavender.  Like  the  strains  of  a  dainty  madrigal  are 
Spring's  first  flowers — delicate,  simple,  graceful. 


Winter  again  with  a  high  wind  and  flurries  of  snow. 
The  birds  ate  silent  but  the  great  organ  of  the  wood 
pours  forth  a  solemn  music  responsive  to  the  touch  of 
the  wind.  This  is  the  music  of  the  soul — of  the  imagina 
tion.  Sitting  by  a  majestic  black  oak  I  can  feel  its  mas 
sive  frame  tremble  with  the  harmony.  On  through  the 
woods  the  trees  sway  to  the  noble  rhythm — while  the 
music  swells — dies  away — now  shakes  the  earth  with  its 
rushing  diapason. 

The  Dante-like  souls  are  here  to-day.  I  can  see 
them  now  avast  procession  sad  browed,  steadfast  eyed, 
dusk  clothed  treading  the  way  of  purgatory,  of  hell,  of 
heaven — for  whom  there  is  but  one  God  :  He  who  sits 
upon  His  everlasting  throne — but  one  thought — the 
thought  of  Him — of  those  who  love  Him — of  those  who 
serve  Him.  Impassioned  contemplationists — spirits  who 
walk  apart— passing,  passing  into  the  unknown. 


3o  MARCH 

This  afternoon  the  fields  are  whitened  by  a  sudden  wet 
snow.  The  plover  are  circling  and  calling,  their  wings 
showing  white  against  the  sky.  They  seem  to  enjoy 
the  storm,  breasting  the  wind  and  swinging  down  its 
current  at  a  great  rate — flashing  over  my  head  in 
gray  and  silver.  How  my  pulse  quickens  as  I  watch 
them  and  the  spirit  of  boyishness  grows  strong  within 
me.  I  too  will  breast  the  wind  and  race  with  it — 
its  comrade,  its  brother.  Its  vigor  shall  be  mine — 
we  will  taste  together  the  old  free  life,  faring  where 
we  will. 

The  quail  have  many  paths — through  the  tall  tangled 
"redtop"  in  the  fence  corners — places  of  restfulness,  of 
coziness  from  the  whirling  storm.  Having  raced  with 
the  wind  I  lie  at  full  length  in  one  of  these  bird  homes, 
and  put  out  my  tongue  for  a  taste  of  the  snow  that  is 
sweet  with  the  tang  of  earth  and  cloud.  Close  at  hand 
are  the  j uncos  for  whom  good  Mother  Earth  has  grown 
tall  weeds  with  nourishing  seed.  What  a  picture  they 
make  under  the  snowy  ironweeds — and  how  he  praised 
them  who  knew  them  so  well. 

As  I  enter  the  deep  woods  the  storm  seems  to  be  only 
in  the  treetops.  The  spider's  webs,  woven  on  a  warmer 
day,  are  like  handkerchiefs  of  exquisite  lace,  catching  and 
holding  the  snow  crystals  that  sift  slowly  through  the 
boughs. 


The  woods  at  night !  The  familiar  trees,  friends  of  the 
day,  how  strange.  Whispering,  whispering — beckoning 
— writing  dark  legends  on  a  faint  scroll  of  sky.  A  flut 
ter  of  wings,  a  shaken  bush  sends  thrills  to  my  finger-tips. 
A  twig  startles  me  with  its  cold,  wet  touch.  I  know  the 
rough  oaks  and  hickories,  the  smooth  bole  of  the  painted 
beech,  but  to  put  my  hand  upon  them  does  not  reassure 
me.  They  are  members  of  another  brotherhood,  living 
in  another  world.  The  screech-owl,  their  unseen  com 
panion  spirit,  moans  near  me  in  the  darkness.  Skeleton 
trees  rub  their  arms  together  with  a  creaking  sound. 
All  around  me  there  are  voices  low,  indistinct :  then  I 
hear  the  bay  of  a  hound  ;  the  dark  fancy  passes.  My 
hand  conies  in  contact  with  a  sassafras  twig ;  I  taste  its 
wholesome  flavor  and  am  no  longer  afraid. 

And  now,  caught  in  the  meshes  of  the  treetops,  I  see 
the  stars.  Occasionally  I  hear  a  faint  speep  from  some 
bird  disturbed  on  its  roost.  I  take  a  long  breath  of  the 
woody  odors,  pungent  with  frost.  My  feet  find  and  fol 
low  a  well-loved  path. 

The  woods  at  night !  I  stand  apart  from  them  and  see 
their  dark  tops  against  the  sky,  rising  out  of  the  shadow 
of  the  fields  in  solemn  beauty.  What  watch  they  keep — 
noble  warders  at  the  Gate  of  Silence.  What  thoughts 
are  theirs  01  storm  and  calm  through  a  century  of 
seasons  !  What  peace,  what  death  struggles  they  know 


32  MARCH 

in  their  depths !  What  communion  they  hold  with  the 
stars,  the  clouds,  with  the  little  birds  that  know  their 
boughs  and  nestle  in  them  through  the  long  watches. 


What  spirit  of  the  innumerable  host  of  Beauty  led  me 
by  the  river  this  morning  to  hear  that  sweet  sparrow 
song  ?  To  him  I  vow  an  offering  of  the  first  spicewood 
blossoms  :  for  'twas  a  lovely  strain  and  one  that  I  shall 
not  soon  forget.  I  had  been  following  some  of  the  mas 
ter  melodists  of  the  mind  indoors  when  the  spirit  called 
me ;  and  I  went  forth  with  their  songs  in  my  heart  to 
hear  a  song  they  loved,  by  a  constant  member  of  the 
Great  Choir.  It  was  by  the  still,  wintry  river  amid 
brown  and  broken  weeds,  with  scarce  a  bit  of  green,  but 
the  singer  had  heard  a  whisper  from  the  reddening  cat 
kins — a  secret — and  knew. 


The  red  maple  boughs  are  misty  with  color,  and 
through  them  breaks  the  orange  sunrise.  Overhead  the 
sky  is  soft  gray  with  bluish  streaks.  Robins,  bluebirds, 
cardinals  are  singing.  The  robin  : 

"Spring  is  here,  yes  sir! 
Spring  is  here,  yes  sir !  " 

"  Sweet,  sweet,  sweet — do,  do, do!  What  cheer '?  What 
cheer f"  sings  the  cardinal;  but  simpler,  tenderer,  the 


MARCH  33 

song  of  the  bluebird.     Cheery,  yet  of  a    loveliness,   a 
something  that  has  passed  from  the  earth. 


Here  would  I  worship,  with  my  very  soul 
Enraptured  with  the  beauty  of  this  hour — 
This  tender  light — the  unfolding  of  the  flower 
Of  sunset. 

A  kingfisher  is  circling  above  the  maples  sounding  his 
rattle,  his  splendid  blue  and  white  flashing  on  the  rosy 
afterglow.  Far  to  the  southwest  there  is  a  succession  of 
sunlit  peaks  lifting  their  heads  in  the  violet  air.  Who 
has  not  yearned  at  times  for  that  mountain  land  of  the 
sky? 


The  woods  are  yet  dark  and  wintry  looking,  streaked 
with  the  white  of  the  sycamore.  Somewhere  in  the 
brown  weeds  the  sparrow-hawk  sees  his  quarry  and 
hangs  against  the  sky,  apparently  motionless.  In  the 
low  lands  the  spring  peepers  are  at  it  again  in  high 
pitched  yet  mellow  chorus,  answering  one  another  in 
minor  and  dominant  chords. 

The  music  of  the  frogs,  the  smell  of  the  upturned 
earth,  the  swinging  hand  of  the  sower.  Notes  of  the 
simple  life  that  brings  forth  men  of  heroic  mold  for  whom 
the  world  waits. 


34  MARCH 

Holy  symbol  of  toil,  the  plow  !  With  it  the  husband 
man,  high  priest  of  the  fields,  goes  forth  in  the  dawning 
and  is  sprinkled  with  the  heavenly  dew,  touched  by  the 
heavenly  fire.  From  it  shall  flash  back  the  shekinah  ot 
of  the  hills — on  it,  at  eventide,  the  shadows  lay  hands  ot 
peace,  and  through  the  night  earth  shall  press  it  close 
to  her  bosom  and  bless  it  for  her  fruitfulness  sake. 


Out  through  Hurries  of  sleet, 

Out  from  the  ways  of  men, 
I  go  on  joyous  feet — 

For  the  wild-spice  blooms  again. 

Buds  encased  in  crystal.  All  the  morning  sleet  has 
fallen,  hissing  through  the  trees  and  dead  grass,  and  as 
it  falls  it  rolls  into  little  pockets  among  the  crisp  oak 
leaves  by  the  path — caskets  filling  with  pearls. 

Occasionally  the  sun  strikes  along  the  ice-covered 
limbs  with  marvelous  color  effect.  The  trees  wear  rain 
bow  hues,  drip  golden  rain. 


The  clouds  are  torn  into  shreds,  driven  before  the 
wind — hurled  over  the  horizon.  The  tree  tops  are 
whipped  together — there  is  a  steady  roar  like  that  of  a 
swiftly  passing  train.  Now  and  again  a  snow  flake — a 


MARCH  35 

raindrop  falls.  The  tide  of  life  is  rising,  the  green  spray 
is  tossed  high  on  the  forest ;  but  there  is  a  struggle  be 
tween  the  old  and  the  new  ;  bud  and  frost,  blossom  and 
snow  flake,  and  the  fields  resound  with  the  clang  of 
battle. 

But  rest  you  here  for  a  space  little  snow  flake,  rest 
you  here  for  a  space  on  the  bosom  of  the  first  violet  in 
these  deeps  of  calm.  The  last  flower  of  Winter,  the  first 
of  Spring.  So  let  your  life  melt  into  its  life,  your  beauty 
into  its  beauty, — one,  as  God  wills. 


APRIL. 

WEEPING  willows  in  a  gauze  of  delicate  pea-green, 
black  berries  tipped  with  sparks  of  sap-green, 
the  swelling  buds  of  the  sweet  gum,  gray-green  ;  such  is 
the  color  scale  this  April  morning.  Bright  notes  set  in 
brown  bars.  Spring's  fire,  the  ashes  of  Winter. 

Snipes  run  along  a  marshy  place  in  the  meadow  or 
stand  on  the  hummocks  of  saw-grass,  their  images  re 
flected  in  the  water,  where  also  lie  the  white  clouds  and 
the  blue  sky.  Here  soon  I  will  look  for  the  dainty  blue- 
eyed  grass,  that  suggests  some  quaint  old-fashioned 
place  where  the  mowers  go  down  into  the  meadow  with 
the  music  of  the  whetting  of  scythes  and  the  fragrance 
of  the  heaped  swarth.  Here,  too,  a  heavy  bass  joins  in 
the  chorus  of  the  peepers — a  solo,  then  silence,  a  duet, 
and  again  the  chorus  in  high  pitched  unison. 

The  sparrow  hawks  are  at  their  courtship.  The  female 
poised  lightly  on  the  topmost  twig  of  a  sweet  gum, 
a  spire-like  twig  so  small  that  the  hawk  seems  resting  in 
the  air.  Here  she  waits  the  coming  of  her  lover,  and 
presently  with  the  airiest  of  flutterings  they  fly  over  the 
wood  and  drop  into  its  secret  places. 


APRIL  37 

Redwing  has  come,  the  minstrel  of  showers  and  the 
rainbow.  What  is  more  delightful  than  his  song  as  he 
glides  with  gently  moving  wings  into  a  tree  top? 
"  0-ka-lee !  "  calls  one,  "  0-ka-lee-ah!"  is  answered 
across  the  meadow,  the  notes  like  those  of  a  flute  blown 
from  the  depths  of  a  crystal  spring.  And  the  scarlet  on 
his  wings,  is  it  not  caught  from  the  flame  bearer  ot  the 
sunset  to  glow  here  in  this  greening  world  ?  I  pause  and 
listen.  Far  away,  so  faint  I  can  scarcely  hear  it : 
"  O-ka-lce  !  O-ka-lce-ah  !  "  O  dreaming  time!  O 
meadows  of  April  !  O  tender  voices  that  are  come  again 
at  the  call  of  love  ! 


On  the  fresh,  plowed  fields  a  myriad  gossamers  twinkle 
in  the  yellow-green  sunlight.  Where  do  they  lead,  who 
knows  ?  these  threads  of  a  fairy  spinner.  On  through 
space  the  old  earth  swings  caught  in  their  golden  meshes. 

The  apricots  are  in  bloom  filling  the  orchards  and 
gardens  with  white.  Warm  showers  have  brought  out 
the  lilacs,  spireas,  bush-honeysuckles.  The  air  is  full  of 
delightful  odors  sowed  broadcast  by  the  Great  Sower. 
Dainty  touches  of  pink  are  in  the  gray.  The  peaches 
are  in  bud  with  scattered  blossoms  like  pink  and  white 
snowflakes  on  their  leafless  boughs.  This  fine  color  of 
early  Spring  is  akin  to  that  of  a  clear  dawn,  delicate, 


3  8  APRIL 

refined,  luminous.  Or  like  the  music  of  a  mandolin  lightly 
touched  under  the  tender  beauty  of  a  new  moon,  while 
the  rose  of  the  afterglow  is  in  the  west.  As  far  as  the 
eye  can  reach,  valley  and  hill  are  covered  with  this  blos 
som  snow. 


This  afternoon  there  is  an  apparent  pause  in  the  ad 
vancing  tide.  The  sky  is  lowering,  the  lanes  are  de 
serted.  Streams  overflow  their  banks,  the  lowland  road 
is  a  mjuddy  current.  Yet  what  is  more  beautiful  than 
the  rain  fringe  trailing  across  the  fields,  the  gray  above 
met  by  freshest  green  below.  No  artist  ever  put  such 
lovely  color  on  canvas.  The  rain  comes  on  in  showers, 
the  big  tough-skinned  raindrops  falling  heavily  and 
slowly,  then  the  increasing  patter,  the  steady  downpour, 
the  gleam  breaking  a  silvery  way  through  the  clouds. 

The  red  maples,  shining  with  moisture,  show  the 
deepest  notes  of  color — there  are  many  broken  reds  and 
grays.  The  meadow  brook  is  white  with  cascades — a 
charming  picture  that  Theocritus  or  Herrick  would  have 
loved. 


Another  tidal   wave   of  cold.     All  the  week    it  has 
rained  and  the  peachtrees  and  apricots  look  chill  and 


APRIL  39 

forlorn  in  their  bedraggled  Spring  finery.  Their  blos 
soms  strew  the  ground  with  dingy  white.  The  birds, 
too,  that  a  week  ago  were  singing  so  rapturously,  have 
left  the  world  musicless.  Robin  skulks  in  the  bushes, 
his  love-song  hushed  by  a  touch  of  sorrow.  So  the 
world  is  full  of  silent  voices  that  once  were  its  joy — so 
sadness  waits  on  all. 

The  redbuds,  wild  cherries,  and  coffee  beans  are  in 
bloom — the  jonquil's  gold  is  scattered  at  each  doorstep. 
Thrushes  are  singing — the  vireo  is  here.  The  wood 
violet,  with  its  unfailing  grace, broiders  the  woodland  path. 


I  have  left  the  green  world  to-day  to  breath  the 
balm  of  the  red  cedars  that  crown  a  height  overlooking 
the  road  and  the  lowlands  toward  the  river.  They  are 
the  holy  brothers  who  year  in,  year  out  watch  over  the 
dead.  All  the  birds  know  them  and  fly  to  them  for  rest. 
The  shy,  first  blossoms  put  forth  their  beauty  here  pro 
tected  from  the  bitter  winds,  warmed  by  the  resinous 
mold.  Windflowers,  little  children  in  white,  lift  here 
their  hands  in  prayer,  with  the  bluebells,  unafraid  in 
God's  quiet  room.  White  violets,  brides  of  Heaven — 
doves  sitting  trustfully  on  their  nests — tanagers  like 
scarlet  flowers  of  song,  wrens,  field-sparrows,  juncos — 
undisturbed  by  the  noises  of  the  world,  rest  here,  cared 


40  APRIL 

for,  in  this  Cloistered  place,  where   only  the  murmur  of 
prayer  is  heard,  the  litany  of  the  wind. 

'Tis  good  to  be  here  where  a  voice  from  the  hereafter 
speaks  gently  to  the  soul:  ^  Be  not  afraid!"  And 
as  I  sit  looking  up  through  the  dark  green  branches, 
starred  with  blue-gray  berries,  the  sunlight  is  sprinkled 
in  benediction  and  lies  in  little  flames  around  me.  A 
dove,  a  voice  of  the  soul  bidding  farewell  to  the  world, 
at  peace  with  God,  calls  through  the  stillness.  A  wood- 
thrush  lifts  his  heart  in  song,  earth  is  swung  nearer  heaven. 


Broad  fields  of  rich  brown  earth  new  woven  by  plows — 

A  cloud  of  green  on  the  willows,  and  flame  on  the  redbud's  boughs. 

At  a  wayside  gate  opening  into  a  field  whose  crest  is 
crowned  with  tall  pines,  I  find  my  first  apple  blossom, 
very  pink  and  fragrant.  The  springtide  is  at  its  loveliest 
when  the  apple  is  in  bloom.  It  is  the  very  crest  of  the 
wave  breaking  in  pink  and  white  foam — blossom  spray 
blown  across  the  fields.  And  the  scent  of  the  apple 
blossoms.  Once  on  a  day  she  wore  them  in  her  hair — 
their  perfume — you  will  not  forget. 

The  dogwoods  are  in  full  white  ;  it  is  time  to  plant 
corn — to  go  a-fishing.  What  a  beautiful  border  their 
blossoms  make,  with  those  of  the  red  bud,  about  the  feet 
of  the  tall  gums,  maples  and  oaks.  In  all  seasons  the 


APRIL  41 

dogwood  is  one  oi  the  handsomest  of  trees.  In  Spring 
white,  in  Summer  its  layer-like  branches  rich  in  light 
and  shade;  in  the  Fall  bright  with  red  berries  and 
maroon  and  reddish  leaves,  and  in  Winter  its  fine  up- 
curved  twigs  tipped  with  grayish  buttons. 

Under  the  dogwoods  the  first  butterfly  flutters  past 
like  a  wind-blown  blossom.  May  apples,  the  umbrellas 
of  the  country  children,  are  thick  on  the  hill  slopes — 
each  holding  up,  half  hid,  its  waxen  flower.  And  dotted 
among  the  trees  are  Sweet  Williams 

"that  grow  for  happy  lovers." 

But  sweeter  than  them  all  are  the  blossoms  of  the  sassa 
fras  now  clustering  on  bare  boughs  overhanging  the 
creek.  How  the  bees,  true  critics  of  all  wood  sweets, 
love  them !  Their  odor  has  nothing  of  the  hothouse 
about  it.  It  is  altogether  of  out-of-doors — wonderfully 
fresh  and  spicy.  As  the  sassafras  tree  draws  into  its 
roots  the  raciness  of  the  old  free  life  and  offers  it  to  man, 
so  the  sassafras  blossom  draws  from  the  rainbowed  air 
its  pleasantest  tang — the  very  spice  of  dew  and  sun — and 
shakes  it  down  on  the  hearts  that  wait  it. 


The  river  bank  is  purple  with  orchids  under  the  amber 
and  green  tipped  boughs  of  the  sugar  maple.  And  with 
the  orchids  scores  of  Dutchmen's  Breeches — daintiest  of 


42  APRIL 

flowers  with  coarsest  of  names.  The  oriole  turns  like  an 
orange  flame  about  the  high  limbs — pecking,  singing, 
eating.  But  why  he  should  try  to  stand  on  his  head 
while  he  sincrs  I  am  unable  to  find  out. 


Now  April  like  a  vestal  feeds  the  flame 
That  glows,  rose-red,  on  many  a  tasseled  lamp 
Upon  the  black  oaks ;  and  the  redbuds  camp 

Along  the  creek ;  and  Bob  White  tells  his  name. 

The  maple  leaves  are  like  young  squirrel's  ears.  The 
titmouse  is  calling  incessantly,  and  there  are  many  fine 
silvery-fluted  sparrow  songs  blown  gossamer-like  from 
the  ravines  and  sheltered  places.  The  wood  warblers, 
little  bodies  so  puzzling  to  a  bird  lover,  are  coming  in, — 
now  silent,  now  singing  with  the  ebb  and  flow  of  Spring. 
Gulls  that  have  beat  their  way  up  from  the  Gulf  flash 
white  wings  over  the  river,  resting  for  a  moment  on 
its  waves,  and  off  again  in  graceful  circles.  The  cotton- 
wood,  a  giant  of  the  riverside,  has  put  on  its  silver-gray. 
The  haze  on  the  distant  wood  has  deepened.  The  colors 
change  through  softest  gradations  across  the  fields — the 
blue  of  far-off  woods,  the  gray  of  the  nearer,  the  misty 
green  of  the  willows  by  the  shore,  the  flash  of  the  green 
sparks  and  fire  of  the  larger  leaves. 

Close  to  the  ground  in  a  brush-heap  is  chewink,  busy 
with  the  very  earthy  thought  of  making  a  living.  He  is 


APRIL  43 

alternately  a  poet  and  a  fellow  of  business,  and  he  puts 
on  one  coat  or  the  other  as  the  mood  moves  him.  Pres 
ently  he  will  leave  the  earth  far  beneath  him,  and  from 
the  highest  twig  of  the  highest  tree  he  will  shake  out  his 
happy  bell-song. 

There  is  much  nest  building  going  on.  The  birds  fly 
by  with  timothy  straws,  feathers  and  bits  of  twigs  in 
their  bills  ;  the  female,  as  a  rule,  doing  the  work  while 
the  male  does  the  singing.  This  seems  scarcely  to  com 
port  with  the  other  lover-like  qualities  of  birds,  their  con 
stancy  ;  their  united  care  of  their  young,  but  doubtless 
the  song  of  the  singer  repays  the  worker  as  it  repays  me 
a  hundred-fold. 

The  "  Weavers  "  and  the  "  Carpenters  "  are  the  chief 
nest  builders  represented  here,  and  soon  many  homes  will 
be  ready  for  the  eggs  and  the  nestlings. 

The  vireos  and  orioles  are  the  airiest  of  builders. 
Many  a  strand  of  tough-fibered  bark  is  used  in  swinging 
their  nests  from  the  outer  limbs.  Sometimes  these  nests 
are  wrecked  during  a  storm,  turned  upside-down,  and  the 
eggs  or  the  young  dashed  to  the  ground.  Then  how 
touching  is  the  scene  with  the  parents  hovering  over  the 
ruin,  calling  helplessly  above  their  dead.  They  cannot 
understand,  nor  can  we,  Life,  Death,  Sorrow. 

But  these  tragedies  are  the  exception.  The  birds  are 
optimists  ;  they  teach  us  many  a  lesson  of  joy;  of  bright 


44  APRIL 

living.  They  have  their  humorous  side.  The  flickers, 
for  instance,  are  a  funny  lot.  I  have  seen  them,  the 
female  sitting  very  upright  and  sedate  at  first,  six  or  seven 
feet  from  the  male,  through  many  a  courtship,  and  it 
equals  anything  in  the  "  settin'  up  "  of  the  mountaineers. 
The  whole  process  of  hitching  a  "cheer"  nearer  and 
nearer  is  carried  out  to  perfection,  only  instead  of  a  chair 
the  male  has  at  his  disposal  a  series  of  bows  that  would 
do  credit  to  a  Grandee  of  Spain.  With  these  he  pro 
ceeds  to  captivate  his  dear,  swelling  out  his  chest  to  show 
its  fine  mottlings,  bending  his  neck  to  display  the  splen 
did  band  of  red  there,  and  all  the  time  saying  "  Sweeter, 
sweeter,  sweeter,  sweeter."  This  elaborate  affair  may  be 
carried  out  on  the  ground  or  on  a  limb  high  in  the  air 
it  is  all  one  to  the  flicker,  if  he  wins  his  sweetheart. 


To-day  the  spirit  of  Halcyon  is  in  the  woods.  April 
stands  at  the  portal  through  which  she  must  shortly 
pass  forever.  For  though  one  may  come  again  bearing 
her  name,  bringing  the  similitude  of  her  offerings,  yet 
this  April  with  all  she  gives  of  hope,  memory,  beauty, 
can  never  return.  Yet  how  joyously  she  goes. 

Long  shadows,  tremulous,  lie  on  the  wold, 
Dappling  the  sunny  spots  of  dewy  gold. 
Love,  hope — are  woven  by  swift  shuttle  wings, 
A  net  of  joy  in  which  the  whole  earth  swings. 


MAY. 

I  AM  introduced  to  May  by  a  pair  of  summer  tanagers 
that  flutter  before  me  as  I  walk  toward  a  bordering 
wood  to  watch  the  unfolding  of  the  leaves.  Joy  be  with 
you  comrades  !  Flash  across  the  glad  earth.  Thread  the 
the  shadows  with  light — May  salutes  you,  my  heart  bids 
you  Godspeed. 

And  now  that  I  am  come  to  the  wood,  lady-slippers 
gleam,  sun-touched,  in  the  glade  where  the  mold  is  like 
a  great  sponge  full  of  moisture  and  covered  with  ferns 
and  mosses.  Wake-robins,  sweet  williams,  yellow 
violets  crowd  the  hummocks  and  peep  above  the  rotting 
logs.  Life  is  silently  transforming  all  about  me.  The 
interlaced  twigs  are  veiled  in  green.  The  unbeaten 
center  of  the  woodland  road  is  pink,  white,  green,  yellow. 
The  hoof-prints,  marks  of  winter  hauling,  are  fringed 
with  delicate  fungi.  So  soon  Nature  reasserts  herself 
when  man  has  passed — so  soon  the  wilderness  that  blos 
soms  as  the  rose  overflows  its  borders  and  once  more 
carpets  the  fields  with  its  own  beauty. 

The   locusts   are   in  bloom — their   fragrance  like   the 


46  MA  Y 

letter  of  a  dear  friend.  Along  the  lanes  they  stand, 
marking  the  way  to  quiet  homesteads — or  clustered  in 
the  hollows  of  the  hills  to  invite  one  beneath  their  shade, 
that  is  beloved  of  all  fine  sweet  grasses.  It  is  in  one  of 
these  hollows  that  I  have  found  rest  this  afternoon,  with 
the  sun  well  down  on  the  distant  treetops  and  the  song  of 
a  plowman  in  my  ears.  It  is  here  only  that  the  bluegrass 
comes  to  perfection  in  Western  Kentucky — the  affinity 
being  strong  between  these  two  aristocrats  of  the  State. 
And  so  the  grass  at  my  feet  is  thick  and  long,  a  pure 
sap-green  in  the  sunlight — lusty  and  dark  in  the  mottled 
shade.  Overhead  the  blossoms  hang,  white  in  dull  sage 
green — and  the  hum  of  bees  is  drowsy  music  there.  Let 
the  world  busy  itself  about  work — this  hour  I  will  "  loaf 
and  invite  my  soul." 


The  black  oak  bears  a  blossom  of  song  to-day — the 
mockingbird.  Sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  I  lift  up 
my  heart  to  the  blossom  above.  The  fragance  of  all 
song  is  there — the  joy  and  abandon  of  it — amid  the 
green  leaves  and  under  the  blue  sky.  O  men,  toiling  in 
the  fields  below,  listen  !  What  is  better  in  all  your  phi 
losophies  than  this  ?  Love,  love,  love — amid  the  green 
leaves  and  under  the  blue  sky.  Do  you  hear  it  ?  Do 
you  understand  it  ?  You  with  your  labor  shall  find  no 


MA  Y  47 

higher  wisdom — for  love  is  the  fulfilling  of  the  law.  Ah, 
the  very  oak  trembles  with  the  ecstacy  of  the  music  ! 
What  dreams  encompass  me !  The  plows  flash  at  the 
turning  of  the  furrows — the  sheep  bells  shake  out  their 
soft  melodies — the  mists  trail  along  the  low  meadows— 
the  creek  sparkles  at  the  break  by  the  hillside — but  for 
me  all  are  but  the  lights,  shadows,  voices  of  a  dream, 
while  I  float  by  on  that  marvelous  stream  of  melody. 
Through  all  the  depths  of  my  being  its  beauty  thrills — 
till  silence  and  a  strange  awakening  tell  me  he  is  gone — 
"  the  slim  Shakespeare  of  the  tree." 


To-day,  by  chance,  I  almost  heard 

The  secret  of  a  little  bird, — 

A  tender  secret  whispered  low 

To  him  whose  answering  heart  would  know. 

It  was  in  a  thicket  and  I  had  crept  in  very  silently  and 
sat  with  white  wood-lilies  about  me.  The  little  fellow 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  nest  looked  down  and  nodded 
as  if  to  say  :  "  It's  all  right ;  I  feel  able  to  work  for  a 
dozen  now." 

How  much  of  beauty  the  fields  would  lose  if  all  the 
thickets  were  cut  away  ;  and  how  the  birds  would  suffer. 
Here  the  meadow  sweeps  round  the  thicket's  walls  of 
green,  and  the  mower  goes  by,  but  in  this  green  retreat 
all  is  quiet  and  peace.  Tender  fungi  grow  in  its  flower 


48  MAY 

rooms,  fed  with  the  palest  dew  of  sunlight.  Wood 
thrushes  make  it  their  home,  and  many  a  shy  wood 
warbler  whom  one  would  never  know  save  by  waiting 
here. 

Leaving  the  thicket  the  path  leads  me  along  the  edge 
of  the  thick  woods  where  the  fleur-de-lis  grow.  A  slug 
gish  water  creeps  around  the  feet  of  the  tall  scarlet  oaks, 
and  in  it  are  lit  these  flowers  of  gold,  blue,  and  white  that 
shine  for  the  coming  of  dusk. 

White  moths  are  wearing  circles  against  the  vermeil 
sky,  and  all  the  trees  are  still  and  dark  as  ebony.  The 
dusk  is  merged  in  night. 


Out  of  the  glory  of  the  dawn  the  oriole  comes  with  a 
song.  Redwings,  song-sparrows,  answer  him.  The 
blackberry  bushes,  in  pure  white,  are  bowed  with  the 
weight  of  dew  pearls.  The  sky  is  softest,  clearest  amber 
with  rose  and  straw-colored  clouds  at  the  zenith. 

Dawn  !  Symbol  of  all  that  is  pure,  of  all  that  is 
holy.  Inspiration  of  song — the  Day  Spring,  inexhaust 
ible,  flowing  to  refresh  the  world.  Out  of  it  come  hope, 
life,  gladness.  From  darkness  men  have  turned  their 
faces  toward  it — seeking  God — in  it  He  has  revealed 
Himself  in  His  greatest  beauty.  Ages  ago  it  called  men 
to  prayer — its  light  led  them  from  their  own  country 


MA  Y  49 

into  a  land  of  better  things — and  touched  their  hearts 
with  heavenlier  aspirations.  Happy  is  he  who  to-day 
finds  the  old,  old  religion  in  it — the  still  small  voice — 
the  Eternal  Beauty. 


The  "  raincrow  "  is  calling  by  the  creek.  What  a 
silent  fellow  he  is  !  How  noiselessly  his  long  grayish 
body  slips  through  the  trees.  Do  the  clouds  gather  at 
his  call  ?  Is  he  a  prophet  of  darkening  skies,  of 
showers  ?  The  farmers  hold  him  so — but  I  have  proved 
him  a  false  prophet  in  more  than  one  dry  season.  Like 
his  cousin  over  seas  he  seems  but  a  wandering  voice 
to  hundreds  who  have  heard  but  have  never  seen  him. 
A  mystery  of  the  woods,  associated  with  the  screech-owl 
and  kindred  birds  of  ill-omen. 

This  woodland  that  the  raincrow  loves  is  also  the 
home  of  many  sweeter-throated  birds — as  shy  as  he  : — 
the  warblers.  High  above  me  the  sunlight  falls  in 
golden-green  showers — yet  softly  and  subdued  as  befits 
singers  who  are  shy. 

Yet  even  in  this  half  light,  and  in  this  quiet  they  do 
not  often  venture  from  their  lofty  arches  where  they  flit 
swiftly  about  as  if  holding  the  earth  unworthy  of  their 
touch.  How  gracefully  and  deftly  the  flycatchers  take 
their  food  in  midair.  One  cannot  conceive  of  a  daintier 


50  MAY 

way  to  satisfy  hunger.  It  is  apparently  all  color  and 
rhythm — with  green  boughs  and  violet  sky  for  canopy — 
the  pure  air  for  a  table — and  in  its  midst  the  sweet 
boquet  of  the  woods. 

The  warblers,  by  reason  of  their  elusiveness,by  turns 
elate  and  depress  the  bird  lover.  He  sees  them,  he 
knows  them  to-day,  to-morrow  he  may  follow  them  only 
to  know  them  not.  But  how  pleasant  is  a  speaking 
acquaintance  if  one  may  never  know  them  better.  What 
joyous  ways  they  lead  one  in  through  all  the  changing 
year.  In  the  dawn  light,  in  the  dusk  light,  in  paths  un- 
trod  by  many  feet,  in  lanes  that  loiter  through  quiet 
fields  and  by  still  waters,  out  from  the  gossip,  the  petty 
bickerings,  the  clash  of  creeds  into  the  freedom  of  God's 
sweet  room  of  out-of-doors. 

One  day  the  world  wrill  miss  these  "little  brothers  of 
the  air  " — ah,  the  silence,  the  regret,  then. 

On  the  still  surface  of  the  creek  water  spiders  are 
sporting,  trailing  ripples  that  glint  with  changing  color. 

As  I  stand  on  the  bridge  looking  at  a  jam  of  logs  in 
the  creek,  through  which  the  water  gurgles  in  foamy 
cascades,  a  measuring  worm,  that  humble  tailor  of  the 
woods,  is  taking  the  measure  of  my  coat  sleeve,  errati 
cally,  but  doubtless  with  a  purpose  beyond  my  ken. 
Passing  on  the  hillward  way  I  meet  with  king  birds  and 
larks,  and  a  flock  of  bobolinks  following  a  rooting  hog, 


MAY  51 

the  backs  of  the  singers  glistening  in  the  level  sunbeams, 
so  music  oftentimes  waits  on  material  things .  Not  a  note 
now  have  these  poets  of  Spring.  They,  too,  must  eat. 


Now  is  the  high  tide  of  song.  The  balm  of  early 
Summer  is  in  the  air,  the  wind  inundates  the  woods  and 
fields  with  low,  sweet  sound.  Butterflies,  little  white  and 
mauve  Hesperia  and  splendid  Papilios  flutter  by.  A 
song-sparrow,*  on  a  dead  tree  just  back  of  an  osage 
hedge,  sings  rapturously  !  A  low  note  thrice  repeated 
and  then  an  exquisite  cadenza.  What  art — yet  how  art 
less  !  Surely  his  sweetheart  must  believe  it  the  sweetest 
love  song  in  all  the  wide  world. 

The  meadow  across  the  way  is  bright  with  the  blos 
soms  of  blue-eyed  grass — shy  stars  in  this  heaven  of 
tender  green  where  dwells  the  gentle  spirit  of  Spring. 

Lying  at  full  length  on  the  meadow,  in  the  timothy 
and  clover,  drawing  in  deep  breaths  of  their  fragrance, — 
one  with  the  bees,  the  butterflies,  the  clouds,  the  birds, — 
communing  with  the  soul  of  Beauty :  the  deeps  above 
sown  with  islands  of  white,  the  gentle  heart  of  the  earth 
— the  wonder,  the  dream — what  more  shall  I  desire  ? 
Not  the  unfolding,  the  making  plain  of  it  all ;  not  a 
vision  of  the  haven  ;  not  of  the  why  I  am  here,  a  mote 
in  the  sunbeam  of  God — no,  only  that  my  heart  may  be 

4 


52  MAY 

as  fragrant  with  love  as  the  clover  is  fragrant,  that  I  may 
learn  of  it. 

A  crane  flies  low  "across  the  meadow  toward  some 
quiet  willow-bordered  water.  The  lireodendrons  lift  their 
deep  cups  of  reddish-green  gold  to  the  thirsty  bees — 
cups  full  of  nectar,  thick  with  pollen. 

The  fences  are  overrun  with  dogroses,  earliest  of  the 
wild  rose  clan,  in  peaceful  tartans  of  varying  pink.  Oh, 
for  a  day  to  follow  where  they  lead,  far  into  the  "  back 
country,"  where  there  is  many  a  bramble  "thicket,  where 
wild  grasses  push  their  way  across  the  neighborly  roads  ; 
where  comes  no  pageant  of  the  proud  ;  where  often  pass 
the  barefooted  children  of  the  poor.  There,  it  seems  to 
me,  He  would  have  walked,  had  He  been  here  in  the 
olden  time,  led  by  the  flowers  of  the  way  to  the  flowers 
of  the  heart — there,  it  seems  to  me,  He  would  have 
tarried  for  a  while  under  some  humble  rooftree  while 
some  Martha  prepared  for  Him  her  best,  some  Mary 
set  at  His  feet.  There  the  mourning  dove  would  have 
touched  His  heart  with  her  sorrow ;  the  wood-thrush 
have  led  Him  with  joyful  song  through  glades  of  wild 
grape  and  fern. 


The  brown  thrasher  sings  now,  while  the  wheat  is 
taking  on  richer  green — a  clear  velvety  green,  over  which 


MAY  53 

waves  of  color  pass  :  purple  shadow  after  purple  shadow 
rolling  on  and  on,  breaking  at  the  rail  fence  that  skirts 
the  hill.  Gentian  brightens  the  fence  corners.  The  wet 
places  are  blue  and  golden  with  flags.  The  road  is 
edged  with  wild  phlox,  corn-cockle,  mint.  The  gold  of 
morning  is  set  in  the  purple  glooms — a  wonderful  tapestry 
of  rich,  varied  pattern,  of  lustrous  texture.  The  air  is 
filled  with  the  fragrance  of  wild  grape,  most  grateful  of 
all  woodland  odor,s.  There  is  something  like  an  old 
sweet  song  in  this  perfume — a  song  one  keeps  in  his  heart 
and  only  sings  to  a  kindred  heart  at  the  gate  of  memory. 
Ah,  what  joy  to  be  in  the  fields  now — to  rest  on  the 
heart  of  the  Great  Mother  beating  with  renewed  hope  ; 
to  forget  the  poor  gabble  of  the  market-place  in  the 
message  of  the  wind  ;  in  the  putting  forth,  for  lands 
beyond  the  horizon,  of  gleaming  cloud  sails;  to  hear 
what  the  streams  say,  rich  with  opened  springs  of 
treasure ;  to  be  led  as  simply,  as  joyously  as  a  little 
child. 

Bright  glades  of  sun,  the  vesper  singing  clear, 
The  new  life  breaking  thro'  the  old — the  gleam 

Of  passing  wings — and  ever  far  and  near 

The  heart-heard  music  of  a  long,  long  dream. 


JUNE. 


From  the  far  fields  and  the  woods  and  ever  within  me  are  ringing 

Voices  I  know  and  yet  know  not,  voices  of  crying  and  laughter: 

Of  the  dusk-coming  prophet   stars,  of  birds  in  the  dawn-light 

singing— 

Of  one  that  is  strange  as  the  wind's  is,  from  the  mist  hid  land 
of  hereafter. 

And  aye  with  the  voices  silence,  silence  the  shadow  unlifting — 

The  shadow  of  God  on  my  soul,  the  word  He  has  left  unspoken — 
The  echoless  deeps  of  His  space,   the  clouds   that  forever  are 

drifting 

By  His  luminous  islands  of  love,  and  that  bring  to  my  heart  no 
token. 

THE  trumpet  vines  are  blowing  reveille — a  hundred — a 
thousand  coral  bugles  sounding  the  morning  call  of 
peace.  Blessed  music !  Blessed  fields  that  know  not 
the  strife  of  brother  against  brother,  whose  blossoms  are 
unstained  with  blood.  Along  the  lane  the  trumpet  vines 
stand,  the  lane  little  travelled,  shadowed  all  day  by  tall 
grasses  and  overhanging  boughs,  the  lane  leading  by  an 
oak,  an  elm,  low  drooped,  majestic — kings  reigning  jointly 
over  all  this  fair  realm.  The  oak  a  hundred  feet  tall 
with  the  spread  of  a  hundred  feet,  dark,  muscled  like  a 
giant  athlete,  a  druid  holding  aloft  bunches  of  mistletoe, 
a  bird  lover  holding  the  young  birds  safe  from  storms, 


Now  is  the  high  tide  of  Summer. 


JUNE  55 

safe  against  his  great  heart.  The  elm  of  broader  sweep, 
of  finer  fibre,  more  delicately  appareled,  cleaner  limbed. 
Kings  they  have  been  for  a  century,  dearer  and  dearer  to 
the  heart  of  the  earth,  to  the  birds,  to  the  cattle  at  noon 
day,  dearer,  God  will,  to  man,  that  they  may  be  kings 
for  a  century  more. 

The  corn  is  being  plowed,  the  plowman,  like  an  artist 
working  back  and  forth  over  his  canvas,  changing  the 
cornfields  from  gray-green  to  a  rich  brown  streaked 
with  yellow- green.  A  light  mist  lies  on  the  woods. 
Wild  sweet  potato  vines  are  woven  in  and  out  the  fence- 
rows,  hanging  them  with  pink -throated  silvery  blossoms 
in  which  the  bumble-bees  revel,  coming  out  drunken 
with  nectar  and  yellow  with  pollen.  Milkweed  has  put 
on  its  finest  purple.  Gay  white  and  yellow  moth-mul 
leins  shake  their  butterfly  flowers  against  the  lips  of  the 
wind,  the  white  umbels  of  elder  make  the  path  like  one 
leading  up  to  the  palace  of  the  good  Haroun  Al  Raschid. 
A  little  brook  slips  under  the  willows,  darkens,  and 
dances  out  again  laughing  in  the  sun,  laughing  up  in  the 
eyes  of  thrashers,  black  birds,  sparrows,  jays,  wrens  who 
have  come  here  to  taste  its  wares.  A  Baltimore  oriole 
preens  himself  and  sings  within  a  few  feet  of  me.  Now 
is  the  time  when  his  voice  may  be  heard  at  its  best  with 
that  of  his  cousin  of  the  orchard,  fine  feathered  fellows 
with  delightful  songs.  "  It's  very  good  to  be  here. 


56  JUNE 

Hear  it?    Know  it?"  he  sings  to  me,  to  the  loitering 
clouds,  to  the  dimpling  water. 


The  wheat  is  nearly  ready  for  the  harvest,  gold 
crested,  garnet-stemmed,  rippling  softly  or  rioting  with 
little  whirlwinds  that  dance  this  way.  Dimpling,  rust 
ling,  running  in  waves  to  the  woodland,  a  far-off  dark- 
green  bar.  Beauty  can  express  herself  no  more  fully, 
can  add  no  more  delicate  touch,  no  fresher  color.  The 
fields  are  full  of  sap.  There  are  no  sere  tips  on  the  mul 
titudinous  grasses  or  leaves.  No  dust  clouds  hang  along 
the  horizon,  the  noon-light  has  not  lost  the  freshness  of 
the  dawn.  The  plumage  of  the  birds  is  lustrous,  full. 
Each  leaf  is  in  its  place,  each  cell  crowded  with  clilor- 
ophyl,  the  woods  reflecting  light  in  sparkling  showers, 
diffusing  it  in  tenderest  yellow-green.  The  innumerable 
insect  army  is  under  way,  the  air  trembling  with  a 
myriad  wings — moth,  butterfly,  beetle,  ant,  grasshopper, — 
the  unseen  highways  of  the  grass  are  alive  with  multi 
tudes  of  travellers.  The  green  world  is  busy,  glad,  blos 
som  laden. 


The  vanilla-like  perfume  of  the  buttonbush  is  wafted 
from  the  creek.     The  clustering  wild  onions  are  like  a 


JUNE  57 

fine-meshed  net  dotted  with  tufts  of  magenta.  The 
shadows  grow  long — stretching  in  faint  violet  far  across 
the  hills.  The  west  is  deep  rose  with  tall  castles  of 
purple  cloud — Dusk  waits  at  the  horizon. 

The  night  call  of  the  birds — To  rest — to  rest — to 
sleep  !  So  soon  the  final  sleep  comes — the  last  good 
night. — The  fading  light — the  shadow — the  quiet. — God 
keep  you,  O  Vesper!  God  hear  your  evening  hymn ! 
God  keep  you  all  safe — little  birds  ! 


In  the  harvest.  The  shocks  are  like  the  golden  tents 
of  a  mighty,  splendid  army.  Redwings  and  song-spar 
rows  are  singing  along  the  fence-rows  and  in  the  tall 
timothy  that  borders  the  wheatfield.  The  hedges  are 
bright  with  butterfly  weed.  Dickcissel  tells  his  name. 
The  tall  weeds  appear — ironweed,  ragweed,  goldenrod. 
Along  the  lane  leading  to  the  deep  woods  flocks  of  blue 
birds  go  before  me,  touching  the  fence  posts  with  bits 
of  blue — singing — tnially,  trnally ,  trually. — What  dear 
fellows  they  are !  How  welcome  their  song  !  Never 
growing  old — always  fresh  and  good  like  the  love  of  a 
true  heart.  At  the  edge  of  the  wood  the  red-eyed  vireo 
is  singing— declaiming  rather:  "  Do  you  hear  it?  Do 
you  believe  it?  " 

In   the   woods   the   thick  foliage  of  gums  and  maples 


58  JUNE 

almost  excludes  the  sunlight.  The  undergrowth  is  a 
dense  tangle  of  darkest  green.  Greenbriers,  pawpaws, 
hickory,  hackberry — all  woven  together  over  mossy  logs. 
Sharp  rough  grasses  thrust  up  their  blades  to  the  sun 
light — sticktight,  sneezeweed,  false  foxglove  lending  a 
faint  note  of  yellow  to  the  green.  Here  indeed  is  the 
music  and  the  silence. 


It  is  not  the  music  of  birds  but  the  music  of  castanets 
that  charms  here  by  the  ravine  above  the  river.  The 
cottonwood  keeps  time  to  the  measure  of  the  wind,  its 
leaves  sparkling.  Castanets,  innumerable  guitars !  Now 
silent,  the  leaves  motionless,  now  breaking  forth  sud 
denly,  shaking  the  cool  melody  over  the  earth.  Mean 
while  a  broad-leaved  catalpa  is  still,  the  surrounding 
woods  seeming  but  listeners  to  the  cottonwood,  the 
locust  silently  swaying  as  if  to  the  rythm  of  a  dance. 

Elder  and  wild  hydrangea  peep  above  the  edge  of  the 
gorge.  The  cricket  heralds  mid-summer.  The  homely 
camomile  is  scattered  grayish-white  beside  the  way. 


The  nameless  weeds  !  Everywhere  in  the  fields,  the 
woods,  by  the  roadside.  Myriads  whose  names  we  do 
not  know,  each  with  its  own  place  in  the  plan  of  Nature, 


JUNE  59 

its  own  note  in  the  scale  of  color,  supporting  countless 
lives  too  small  for  the  eye  of  man,  careful  by  bloom,  by 
pollen  that  its  own  kind  shall  not  perish.  What  more 
are  we  who  cut  them  down,  than  they,  on  the  broad 
fields  of  God?  How  nameless  are  we  save  to  some 
patient,  loving  heart  that  sought  us  out  and  called  us  by 
name? 


Sometime  after  sunset  this  evening  the  light  in  the 
west,  seen  through  a  maple,  was  exquisitely  beautiful ;  a 
most  delicate  blending  of  pink  and  pale  luminous  blue. 
The  very  leaves  seemed  to  catch  the  colors,  the  tree  was 
transfigured.  Far  above  the  light  was  reflected  in  faint 
orange  tints  on  wisps  of  cloud. 


Masses  of  wild  sunflowers  and  elder  by  the  creek  and 
mirrored  in  its  depths.  Bob  White  !  Bob  White  !  sound 
ing  clear  from  the  stubble.  Young  redbuds  spreading 
diaphanous,  reddish  leaves  by  the  fern-like  foliage  of  the 
wild  thorn.  Rudbeckias,  jewel  weeds,  bordering  the  new 
ground,  blackberries  ripening — so  runs  the  varied  color 
through  this  calm  June  day.  The  heat  waves  tremble 
in  spirals  of  blue  fire.  Up,  up  mounts  a  hawk,  his  wings 
glistening  like  burnished  gold  in  the  sunlight ;  up,  up — 


60  JUNE 

now,  with  swift  folded  wings,  dropping  a  thousand  feet ; 
now  up  again,  screaming.  Hundreds  of  butterflies  are 
drifting  over,  high  in  the  air.  A  rabbit  stops  before  me 
panting,  listening  ;  then  doubles  silently  as  the  tall  weeds 
are  shaken  by  the  pursuing  dog.  The  air  is  heavy  with 
the  scent  of  ragweed.  The  leaves  of  the  corn  droop, 
stroked  by  invisible  fingers  of  heat  for  greater  fruitfulness. 


Oh,  to  feel  the  wind  of  the  upland  blow 
Against  my  cheek — to  hear  the  fine  free  song 
Of  the  indigo-bird ;  to  see  the  shadows  long 
Of  tall  oaks  deepening  in  the  sun's  last  glow, 
And  silvery  mists  across  the  fields  trailed  slow. 


Going  out  of  town  this  afternoon,  with  the  sun  and  the 
wind  at  my  back,  there  lay  before  me  a  beautiful  color 
effect:  white  maples,  along  a  woodland  of  elm,  sycamore 
and  other  dark  foliage  trees,  wind  blown  in  blue-gray 
almost  white.  The  maples  had  been  planted  at  regular 
intervals,  and  their  upturned  leaves  reflected  the  sunlight 
with  remarkable  brilliancy.  The  sky  was  ribbed  with- 
shining  white;  glistening  in  spots  like  a  silver  gauze  vail. 
My  friends  the  sparrows  seemed  to  like  this  breezy 
weather  that  swung  them  so  happily  on  pliant  boughs. 

The  sumac  is  putting  forth  its  yellow  blossoms  after  a 


JUNE  6 1 

night  of  wind  and  rain.  The  clouds  break  into  cumuli. 
Above  are  little  pools  in  the  gray,  glimpses  of  the  calm 
above — the  great  silence.  Many  leaves,  tossed  by  the 
wind,  show  their  silver  linings,  their  delicate  veining. 

On  days  like  these  I  have  often  heard  the  finest  bird 
song,  though,  as  a  rule,  birds  sing  best  on  bright  days. 
I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  song  of  a  brown  thrasher 
heard  when  clouds  were  gathered  in  purple  masses  over 
head  ;  when  there  was  no  gold  of  the  sun  on  all  the 
hills  ;  when  the  face  of  Nature  was  sad  ;  when  the  wind 
breathed  in  mid-summer  the  requiem  of  Fall.  He  was 
hidden  somewhere  in  thick  maple  boughs.  The  joy  of 
all  glad  days  flowed  from  his  throat  in  so  tender,  so 
triumphant  a  strain  that  for  me  all  things  were  made 
new.  It  was  a  triumph  of  hope ;  the  clear  shining  of 
the  inner  sunshine  of  love. 

Yet  the  storm  clouds,  are  they  not  beautiful  for  all 
they  darken  the  earth  and  hush  the  great  bird  choir  ? 
The  storm  clouds  of  a  June  day  rolling  up  from  the 
horizon  in  a  deep  purple  column — the  advance  guard,  the 
"  Wind  Makers  "  marching  steadily  up  the  sky  while 
behind  come  the  surging,  charging  masses  of  gray. 
Far  across  the  upper  sky  they  rush  furiously  in  de 
tached  squadrons — pass  and  are  lost  to  sight — while  the 
great  infantry  of  the  rain  beats  upon  the  earth  in  flash 
and  roar. 


62  JUNE 

And  when  the  storm  has  passed — while  yet  the  air  is 
moist  with  the  trailing  nimbus — if  it  be  near  sunset  what 
wonderful  light  is  diffused  in  softest  most  luminous  yel 
low  over  earth  and  sky — making  the  woods  look  gray. 
A  strange  light-apocalypse — clothing  familiar  things  with 
awful  beauty. 


This  afternoon  the  clouds  are  dark,  fantastic.  A  rift 
in  the  west  lets  through  a  flood  of  orange  light.  Over 
head  the  "  wool  pack"  holds  the  moon  dwarfed  and  wan. 
The  tide  of  Summer  begins  almost  imperceptibly  to  re 
cede.  There  are  brown  spots  on  the  green,  the  wild 
rose  leaves  are  scattered,  the  young  birds  are  being 
trained  for  flight.  The  sunsets  are  richer  in  flaming  reds 
and  yellows.  Corn  is  "  breast  high;  "  tobacco  "covers 
the  hill  ;  "  the  wheat  has  been  threshed  or  is  in  stack. 
There  are  grassless  beaches  of  brown  cracked  earth 
about  the  ponds,  the  creek  is  a  chain  of  pools.  The 
brown  thrasher  sings  at  rare  intervals;  the  bluebirds 
seem  to  have  slipped  away  as  quietly  as  they  came. 
Soon  June  will  follow. 


JULY. 

T~"\  AWN.  In  the  east  a  few  feathery  clouds,  rose-edged. 
* — '  There  is  no  earth  taint  in  this  pure  light — pledge  of 
the  eternal  youth  of  Beauty.  Mist  covers  the  earth,  the 
birds  flitting  up  from  its  trembling  bosom  to  greet  the 
new  morning.  Sheep  bells  tinkle  from  hidden  pastures. 
The  wood  smoke  from  a  wayside  cabin  rises  straight,  a 
thin  column  of  blue  melting  into  the  upper  air.  What 
expectaney  !  The  strings  are  in  perfect  tune  for  the 
hand  of  the  Master — they  tremble  with  unexpressed  har 
monies.  In  the  north  a  little  while  ago  lay  a  long  slen 
der  line  of  clear,  dark-purple ;  now,  as  the  light  grows, 
how  it  changes.  It  is  edged  with  gold ;  barred  with  rose  ; 
set  with  spikes  of  silver  ;  and  now  it  parts  and  the  ends 
float  away,  lessening,  lessening,  sinking  into  the  blue 
like  snow  flakes.  The  first  fine  needles  of  the  sun  ap 
pear  ;  the  mist  is  shaken  ;  the  green  bosom  of  the  earth 
shows  here  and  there.  Doves,  black  birds,  mocking 
birds,  jays,  song  sparrows,  vireos,  cardinals — all  are  sing 
ing,  in  the  very  rapture  of  harmony.  "  Joy  !  joy  !  "  is 
the  song;  but  a  shrike,  the  butcher-bird,  sits  musicless 
and  sullen  near  a  thorn  tree  where  his  victims  are 


64  JULY 

impaled.  He,  too,  can  sing  when  he  will,  but  that  vision 
of  his  cruelty  will  ever  rise  before  me.  I  cannot  love  his 
song. 

The  mist  is  gone  save  here  and  there  along  the  wood 
land  a  silver  strand  is  blown.  So  heavy  is  the  dew  the 
fields  give  forth  an  odor  like  rain-sprinkled  dust.  A 
heron  flaps  lazily  by,  a  clumsy  flight  but  steady  and 
strong.  Elder  hangs  thick  over  the  fence,  fragrant, 
heavy  with  dew  pearls.  Wild  phlox  and  tansy  nod  to 
me  between  the  rails. 

As  the  sun  lifts  clear  above  the  tree  tops  flocks  of 
cirro-cumulus  clouds  gather  in  the  west,  bluish-white, 
glistening.  By  a  little  pool  that  reflects  the  splendor  of 
the  sky  are  water  arum,  blue  lobelia,  wild  carots,  and  at 
the  edge  of  the  wood  the  painted  beech. 

The  painted  beech — handsomest  of  trees  !  To  it  belong 
the  tenderest  green  of  Spring,  the  clearest  hues  of  Fall. 
Fine  branched,  its  leaves  ribbed  daintily,  its  deep  shade 
loved  of  mosses  brown  and  green,  of  lichens  blue  and 
gray.  Smooth  boled,  dome-like,  limbs  drooping,  a  lover 
of  rich  subdued  color  tones  :  a  Dupre  of  the  woods. 

How  the  day  changes  !  Beauty  after  beauty,  cloud 
and  sun,  sunburst  and  shower,  cumuli  and  nimbus.  The 
leaves,  the  wild  flowers,  are  brilliant,  animated.  The 
river — a  glimpse  through  the  trees — is  blue-gray,  still, 
mirror-like,  save  where  dimpled  with  rain. 


JULY  65 

Sunset.  Masses  of  cumuli  lined  with  gold.  How  our 
pigments  fail  before  the  noble  canvas  of  Nature.  How 
dull,  how  hard,  for  all  they  may  express  of  the  immortal 
original. 


It  is  cloudy  today,  but  over  a  fertile  rolling  country  I 
follow  him.  "  Witchery,  witchery,  witchery,"  he  sings 
to  me  over  the  nodding  tops  of  the  wild  parsnips. 
"  Witchery,  witchery!"  Yes,  good  singer,  there  is 
witchery  in  this  happy  way — blossomed  and  canopied 
with  silver  and  blue.  Yes,  my  golden-throated  minstrel, 
I-  follow  a  winding  path  over  rounded  hills  to  a  dear  old 
bridge  I  know,  where  the  water  slips  over  the  brown 
stones  with  a  song  as  sweet  as  yours.  Lead  me  all 
the  way :  sing  with  the  creek,  "  Witchery,  witchery, 
witchery  ! ' ' 

The  meadow  larks,  too,  lend  me  their  songs.  What 
do  they  care  for  the  clouds  trailing  lower  and  lower  ? 
Are  not  the  showers  their  friends — shall  not  the  world 
be  fresher  when  the  old  dust-laden  "sunlight  gives  place 
to  the  new,  as  pure  as  the  breath  of  Dawn  ? 

And  as  the  first  drops  fall  the  doves  are  taking  dust 
baths  in  the  road — medicinal  doubtless,  which  they 
seem  to  enjoy  hugely — diving  and  fluttering  where  the 
dust  lies  deepest. 


66  JULY 

Cicada  strikes  his  strident  drum.  In  many  ravines, 
they  lead  to  the  river,  where  one  stands  at  a  sufficient 
elevation  to  have  a  full  top  view  of  the  foliage,  the  per 
fect  blending  of  color — the  variety  of  form  is  marvelous. 
The  bright  green  leaves  of  the  red  oak,  needle  tipped  ; 
the  leaves  of  the  scarlet  oak  deep  lobed,  delicate,  lust 
rous  ;  the  black  oak's  dark  green,  shining  like  new 
leather  underneath  ;  the  laural  oak's  thick,  shiny  un- 
lobed.  And  mingling  with  the  oaks,  hickory.  The 
broad  leaves  of  the  young  hickory — the  small  curled 
leaves  of  the  old — the  tri-form  leaves  of  the  sassafras — 
the  four  pointed  leaves  of  the  tulip-tree  pea-green, 
sparkling. 

This  sea  of  foliage  touched  by  the  wind  dimples, 
deepens,  ripples — shows  gray  bole  here  and  violet  deep 
there — with  the  lap  of  leaf  on  leaf  as  cool,  as  musical  as 
the  incoming  of  a  tranquil  Summer  tide. 

Now  and  again  some  lordly  son  of  Kish  overtops  the 
rest — a  spire-lide  crest — and  shakes  his  banner  above 
their  heads  :  prince,  sovereign.  Such  a  one  I  know — a 
tulip-tree,  that  from  the  top  of  a  high  hill  rises  a  hundred 
and  fifty  feet — green,  lusty — stooping  a  little  towards  the 
north  to  meet  the  storms,  as  an  athlete  stoops  braced, 
with  arms  outstretched  against  the  coming  rush.  For 
miles  this  noble  tree  may  be  seen — flower-crowned,  or 
lifting  its  torch-like  seed  bracts.  A  tree  of  God's  own 


JULY  67 

planting  when  the  land  was  young  :  old,  old,  when  you 
walked  here,  Audubon. 


My  heart  said  many  days  ago  :  "  The  bluebirds  are 
gone."  It  was  borrowing  sorrow,  for  the  bluebirds  are 
not  gone,  they  are  still  "  shifting  their  load  of  song  " 
along  the  fences.  They  show  me  the  way  this  morning 
and  I  care  not  where  they  lead.  I  can  trust  them 
whithersoever  they  go.  They  are  the  best  guides  to  old 
pleasant  fields  and  lanes,  to  the  old  orchards,  the  old 
barns,  the  old-fashioned  gardens.  They  know  where 
the  altheas,  the  hollyhocks,  the  mock-oranges,  the  bridal 
wreaths,  the  lilies-of-the-valley,  the  cockscombs,  the  lark 
spurs,  the  salvias,  the  gilly  flowers  grow.  The  weather- 
stained  gate  post  with  a  hole  in  its  top,  they  can  tell  me 
of  that,  and  of  the  spring  beneath  the  trees,  the  "  gum  " 
spring,  deep,  with  the  water  bubbling  up  at  its  bottom 
through  clean  white  sand.  Yes,  they  know  it  all,  they 
are  the  gentle  keepers  of  many  a  treasure  of  memory, 
worthless,  may  be,  but  to  the  heart  and  to  them.  God 
keep  them  a  haven. 


The  milkweed  bolls  are  filling.     Elderberries  are  ripe, 
their  deep  garnet  clusters  contrasting  beautifully  with  the 


68  JULY 

neighboring  green.      Poke  berries  are  turning  from  white 
to  green. 


Low  in  the  east  a  misty  orange  moon, 

And  in  the  west  the  last  faint  tinge  of  red, 

Moonlight  and  twilight  mingling  overhead 

In  tender  beauty  that  will  fade  too  soon. 

O  God  of  Earth  and  Heaven  grant  me  this  boon — 

That  often  at  this  hour,  when  I  am  dead, 

My  spirit  may  return  and,  raptured,  tread 

This  winding  hill- path  where  the  cedars  croon ; 

That  I  may  feel,  as  I  feel  now,  the  spell, 

The  ecstacy,  the  longing  and  the  thrill 

Of  mute  companionship,  with  stream  and  dell, 

And  trees,  and  stars,  and  every  heavenward  hill: 

And  dream  the  dreams  no  mortal  tongue  can  tell, 

And  speak  Thy  deeps  that  ever  more  are  still. 


The  weeds  by  the  road  are  covered  with  tiny  white 
butterflies.  I  have  never  seen  them  in  so  dainty  a  bloom 
before.  A  little  further  on  vervain  offers  beauty  to  the 
passer-by,  nor  cares  if  he  bestow  but  a  passing  glance. 
The  swallows  are  dimpling  the  waters  of  a  wayside  pond, 
dimples  that  widen  into  silvery  rings,  that  pass  out  of 
sight  in  the  rushes.  The  clouds  are  like  white  fingers 
outspread  upon  the  sky.  Buffoon  of  the  woods,  the 
yellow-breasted  chat,  is  "showing  off"  to  the  wild  sun 
flowers  and  climbing  false  buckwheat  under  a  clump  of 


JULY  69 

oaks.  He  barks  like  a  puppy,  gobbles  like  a  diminutive 
turkey,  and  tumbles  through  the  air  dangling  his  legs. 
"  Cluck  !  Cluck  /—sic  !  ittlc,  title,  ittle,  ittle  querk  f"  he 
calls  over  and  over  again  between  tumbles.  And  then 
he  straightens  up  and  looks  as  handsome  and  as  little 
given  to  buffoonery  as  one  may  be.  Doubtless  in  nest 
ing  time,  there  is  a  method  in  his  madness,  but  ordinarily 
it  is  pure  fun,  a  bubbling  over  of  spirits. 


I  heard  a  scarlet  tanager  sing  in  the  rain  to-day.  A 
robin-like  song,  and  I  had  the  singer  in  plain  view  as  he 
sat  on  a  fence  rail  above  the  road.  His  brilliant  plu 
mage,  the  dark  sky,  the  dim  green  of  twilight  impressed 
me  as  if  I  stood  before  some  lovely  light  about  to  pass 
away  forever.  His  song  was  quiet  as  if  in  keeping  with 
the  hour.  "  Goodnight !  Farewell  !  "  he  seemed  to 
say,  and  often  in  dreams  I  have  heard  him  since,  "  Good 
night,  farewell." 


Thistle-down  is  beginning  to  fly,  glinting  above  the 
meadows,  seeking  a  place  for  the  great  change.  And, 
floating  like  thistle-down,  ballooning  spiders  trail  their 
gauzy  webs. 


70  JULY 

Here,  not  long  ago,  stood  a  majestic  wood.  Myriads 
of  lifted  leaves  protecting  violets,  sweet  williams,  lady 
slippers,  cardinal  flowers.  Often  I  have  come  here  for 
rest,  for  the  calm  of  its  secret  green  chambers,  for  the 
welcome  of  its  birds  ;  now  what  a  change.  All  gone  ! 
A  pitiable  array  of  stumps,  of  flowers  broken,  trodden 
under  foot,  dying.  The  woodland  pond,  once  mirror  of 
loveliness,  cracked  by  the  sun  and  dry.  Nor  is  it  only  the 
utilitarian  spirit  but  the  wasteful  that  has  been  here.  A 
prodigal  land,  a  prodigal  people.  The  fire,  the  axe,  be 
cause  there  is  enough  and  to  spare.  A  sweeping  des 
truction  !  God's  trees  cut  down,  and  about  the  unshaded 
roof-tree  saplings  planted  without  nurture,  with  no 
thought  of  beauty.  Yet  Beauty  will  take  thought  of  her 
self.  The  best  will  be  made  of  all  that  remains.  Flowers 
will  grow  again,  lustier  in  the  sun.  Here  will  shine  the 
timothy,  the  pink  and  white  clover,  the  lustrous  corn. 
The  spirit  of  the  trees  will  be  here  in  blossoming 
orchards,  in  waving  grain. 


The  rippling  low  laughter  of  corn,  beloved  of  the  sun  and  the 

showers ; 
The  silver-winged  clouds  that  are  borne  to  where  the  rose  sunset 

flowers ; 
The  beauty   that  lies  on  the  wheat;  the  perfume  the  meadow 

distils ; 
A  voice,  unspeakably  sweet,  that  calls  from  the  far  blue  hills. 


JULY  71 

The  bells  of  the  song-sparrows  rung,  the  flutes  of  the  meadow- 
larks  blown ; 

Green  walls  of  a  brook  overhung  with  elder,  whose  fragrance  is 
sown — 

Whose  fragrance  is  sown  on  the  breeze,  to  loiter  and  linger  and 
fail 

In  the  depths  of  the  billowy  trees  at  the  feet  of  the  bitter-sweet 
pale. 


AUGUST. 

SINCE  I  was  last  in  the  fields  July  has  passed  awayf 
but  here  there  seems  no  sorrow  for  the  passing.  The 
indigo-bird  is  singing  joyfully  ;  the  road  is  bordered 
with  "life  everlasting." 

I  called  on  my  friends  the  bank  swallows  to-day  and 
found  them  at  home  in  a  sandy  cliff  overlooking  the 
river.  Handsome,  dapper  fellows  who  will  stay  here 
long  enough  to  see  the  yellowing  golden-rod  and  then 
away  South. 

Quiet  falls  and  Halcyon  is  here — now  a  noisy  fellow, 
breaking  silence  with  his  loud  rattle,  sitting  on  a  dead 
limb  at  the  edge  of  the  ravine.  I  am  very  fond  of  this 
bold,  handsome  fisher,  verily  a  /C'zV^fisher  with  his  royal 
crest  and  robes.  And  bearer,  too,  of  real  halcyon  days, 
when  by  a  peace-loving  stream  I  kept  tryst  with  dreams 
— where  life  was  a  Summer  cloud  restful  in  the  blue,  and 
trade  a  thing  forgotten,  unneeded,  its  curse  removed. 
Dear  harvest-home  days,  when  into  the  granary  of  my 
soul  was  brought  a  harvest  of  beauty :  when  the  sun,  the 
stars,  the  clouds,  my  harvesters,  sang  to  me  their  harvest 
song. 


AUGUST  73 

From  far  away  comes  to  me  now  the  song  of  the 
vireo — dearest  of  woodland  singers,  who  sings  his 
sweetest  while  the  sunshine  drips  through  the  leaves 
after  a  shower.  Reed  notes  with  that  liquid  quality  im 
possible  to  reproduce.  No  song  is  more  artless.  It 
seems  to  bubble  up  from  his  throat  apparently  without 
beginning  or  end.  I  have  sat  for  an  hour,  at  the  foot  of 
a  tall  tree,  in  the  freshness  and  quiet  of  the  forest  just  to 
watch  his  little  body  high  in  the  branches  above,  to  hear 
his  song  dropping  down  to  me  like  golden  raindrops 
breeze-shaken  from  dewy  leaves.  A  true  follower  of 
Pan  is  he — a  voice  of  the  deep,  green  woods. 

Yellow  and  white  butterfles  flit  before  me  as  I  turn 
from  the  river  and  take  the  winding  road  leading  into  the 
hills.  From  a  "  heaven  "  tree  overhead  "  Cuh — cuh — 
cuh"  calls  the  cuckoo — the  "  raincrow  "  and  I  see  his 
long  slate-colored  body  moving  silently  among  the  top 
most  branches.  How  like  a  spirit  he  comes  and  goes. 

The  way  leads  me  around  the  hillside  where  water 
tinkles  down  the  rocks,  and  mingled  with  the  sound,  at 
regular  intervals,  the  monotonous  cry  of  the  wood 
peewee.  "  Pee-we-e,  pee-zvc-c" — a  plaintive  call  that 
would  weary  one  were  it  not  for  the  wonderful  music 
with  which  Nature  accompanies  all  her  singers,  bringing 
out  in  each  voice  the  perfect  measure  of  its  own  beauty— 
so  that  at  the  end  of  the  day  the  true  listener  feels  that 


74  AUGUST 

no  singer  could  have  been  spared.  Just  now  the  pee- 
wee's  song  is  accompanied  not  only  by  the  tinkling  water 
but  by  the  whistling  wings  of  a  dove  in  its  swift  passage, 
and  by  the  liesurely  flap  flap  of  a  flicker  high  in  the 
air.  And  withal  the  wind  touches  the  leaves  to  whisper 
ing  harmony. 

And  as  for  color — well  there  is  redwing  this  moment 
come  over  the  hilltop  with  a  song  of  the  meadow.  A 
short  song  but  never  to  me  a  harsh  one.  What  a  fine 
fellow,  to  be  sure,  with  his  uniform  on — his  glossy  black, 
his  red  epauletts.  A  color  bearer  of  June  at  his  best 
when  the  timothy  is  in  bloom  and  the  first  sheaves  of 
wheat  are  garnered  : 

When  June,  a  wild  rose  in  her  hair, 
Sows  all  sweet  odors  in  the  air. 

About  me,  as  I  pause  to  watch  the  redwing,  floats 
a  delicious  perfume,  wafted  from  the  locusts  on  the 
hill  that  are  yet  fragrant  with  the  memory  of  a  bloom 
l°ng  gone.  A  cool,  delicate  scent  very  grateful. 
It  is  a  charming  grove,  the  locusts  fringed  with 
elms  whose  mid-summer  tips  appear,  their  tender  green 
contrasting  exquisitely  with  the  lustier  green  of  older 
foliage. 

I  pluck  a  handful  of  toad-flax  and  go  up  to  the  grove. 
A  wood-thrush  waits  me.  How  modest  he  is,  yet  how 


AUGUST  75 

perfectly  at  ease  as  he  eyes  me  pleasantly.  A  noted 
singer  without  any  airs.  His  singing  time  is  now  past  ; 
but  on  the  slopes  of  Spring  how  few  surpass  him. 


What  charm  there  is  in  a  winding  road  !  The  road  I 
have  come  to-day  winds  with  ever-increasing  ascent 
among  the  hills.  And  now  that  I  have  reached  the  sum 
mit  of  a  dividing  ridge  I  can  look  back  on  a  way  of 
peaceful  beauty,  along  which  yellow  flags  nod,  and 
brightening  vervain.  Far  in  the  south  are  low,  blue 
hills.  The  sun  has  just  set.  In  the  east  an  indigo- 
colored  storm  cloud  with  fringed  edges  overhangs  the 
flat  woods.  A  long  belt  of  cumulus  of  lighter  blue  binds 
the  horizon,  and  behind  this  belt,  taller  cumuli,  rose- 
bright.  Above,  through  breaks  in  the  wool-pack, 
deeps  of  violet,  touched  with  the  pink  of  the  afterglow. 
All  wonderfully  rich  in  color. 

Here  at  the  edge  of  a  little  pond  I  notice  one  of  those 
charming  bits  of  color  one  so  often  meets  in  the  woods 
and  fields.  A  silver  cluster  of  thistles  against  a  back 
ground  of  tall  magenta  ironweed,  the  picture  reflected 
faithfully  in  the  clear  waters. 

In  the  treetops  is  the  chick!  chick!  of  blackbirds — a 
note  of  Spring.  There  is  something  refreshing  and  cheer 
ing  in  this  familiar  call  and  the  sudden  flight  of  these 


76  AUGUST 

birds  from  tall  boughs.  The  world  is  made  younger, 
the  buds  stir  in  their  long  sleep  if  the  blackbirds  but  go 
trooping  by  in  long-linked  irridescence.  Here  in  sober 
August  they  have  touched  the  chords  of  April.  So 
Nature  would  keep  us  in  mind  of  her  varied  music,  as 
a  friend  brings  out  and  sings  to  us  a  song  we  love  but 
had  partly  forgotten. 

"  Tap,  tap,  tap."  Do  you  hear  him?  Can  you  find 
him  there  among  the  leaves  ?  On  some  dead  limb  he  is 
playing  his  wholesome  march,  but  we  can  only  guess,  as 
we  peer  about,  whether  he  wears  red  and  black,  or  red, 
white  and  black,  or  golden  yellow,  there  behind  his  dense 
screen.  Nevertheless,  we  know  him  for  a  minstrel  good 
and  true  ;  a  stay-at-home  through  Winter  months  when 
all  other  singers  have  fled  away  South.  Joy  be  his  lot! 

The  wind — how  his  tapping  marks  its  melody !  The 
melody  of  the  wind  that  fills  the  soul  with  inexpressible 
longing;  that  year  in,  year  out,  has  been  breathed  upon 
the  earth,  now  in  dim  aisles  of  beauty,  now  through  the 
glad  arches  of  Summer  ways — and  that  shall  continue 
forever. 

The  tall  lobelia  is  in  bloom,  a  dainty  bit  of  blue  at  the 
edge  of  the  ravine. 

Back  toward  the  hills  a  coffee-bean  tree  is  set  with  fine 
effect  against  a  background  of  maples,  its  long  branches  of 
compound  leaves  outlined  in  sap-green  again.st  catalpas 


AUGUST  77 

and  hackberries.  It  seems  as  if  for  a  moment  Nature 
had  given  thought  to  a  landscape  gardener  :  yet  only  for 
a  moment.  A  greater  artist  than  man  is  here. 

Born  acrobats,  a  couple  of  nut-hatches  are  running  up 
and  down  a  large  black  walnut.  Heads  up  or  heads 
down,  or  walking  on  the  underside  of  a  limb  like  flies — it 
is  all  one  to  them.  "Hank,  hank,  qitank  hank  !  "  they 
call.  Clowns  of  the  green  tent  of  the  woods,  life  is  not 
a  sad  affair  at  all  for  them  here,  where  the  sun  flashes 
through  the  trees,  here  with  the  hum  of  the  bees  inv  a 
linden. 


There  is  a  lane  I  know — I  call  it  Song  Lane  because 
my  birds  come  there  to  feast  on  the  wild  cherries  that 
border  it,  to  sing  their  sweetest  songs. 

There,  on  the  top  of  a  rail,  the  great  flycatcher  loves 
to  sit,  his  meditations  interspersed  with  graceful  springs 
as  he  takes  many  a  dainty  bit  from  the  air.  I  am 
glad  he  ignores  me  to-day  as  I  watch  the  little  quail 
running  across  the  quiet  road  for  cover  in  the  high 
goldenrod  that  is  brightening  in  color  for  the  Fall  pageant. 


The   last  of  the  season's  blackberries— a    few   sprays 
hanging  over   the    fence.     The  black-eyed    susans    are 


78  AUGUST 

still  clothed  in  gay  orange  and  black.  Bumblebees 
cling  to  the  blossoms  of  the  false  dragon  head. 

Among  the  bright  wings  of  the  roadside  none  are 
brighter  than  those  of  the  mailed  dragon  fly — the 
"  snake  doctor  "  of  boyhood  days  who  was  always  busy 
visiting  his  ugly  and  venomous  patients.  What  a  libel 
on  such  a  handsome  and  harmless  fellow  !  Here  he 
darts  close  about  me  as  if  to  assure  me  that  he  is  really 
a  knight,  good  and  valorous,  ready  to  tilt  down  a  sun 
beam  for  the  heart  of  a  rose — "  There,  admire  me!"  he 
says,  as  he  pauses  for  an  instant  on  the  tip  of  a  weed. 

The  evening  primrose  gladdens  the  fence  side.  What 
fragance — what  color.  Not  only  at  twilight  but  in  the 
cool  dewy  mornings  it  makes  pleasant  the  way. 


Fall  creeping  on.     A  rainy  day  with  that  indefinable 
touch  of  sadness  our  hearts  know  so  well. 


The  sun  shines  dimly  to-day  after  the  rain.  Scarf 
clouds  are  trailed  across  the  sky.  The  foxtail  grass  is  a 
clear  yellow.  Fields  of  ragweed  stretch  away  to  fields 
of  tasseled  corn.  A  solitary  pecan  tree  rises  dark 
and  prophet-like  against  the  sky. 

And   now  all  the  west  is  lit  with  a  glorious   cloud- 


AUGUST  79 

scape.  Deep  violet,  fiery  orange,  pale  gold,  malachite 
green,  blended  and  glowing  above  the  bowed,  the  silent 
earth. 


This  morning,  as  I  go  afield,  among  the  first  to  greet 
me  is  my  dear  little  friend,  the  goldfinch,  singing  as  he 
comes  his  undulating  way  that  cheery  song  of  his  which 
surely  must  make  hearts  happier.  To  see  him,  in  his 
golden  coat,  on  a  thistle  top,  is  worth  going  miles,  and 
to  lie  in  the  meadow  when  he  flies  over  is  one  of  the 
most  precious  of  all  dream  times. 

The  goldenrods  are  taking  on  more  color.  Here  is 
one  above  the  creek  very  yellow,  and  as  bright  in  the 
water  beneath  it,  that  is  set  round  with  fringing  willows 
and  wild  sweet  potato  vines. 

Near  this  place  is  a  decaying  walnut  whose  trunk  is 
covered  by  a  Virginia  creeper  in  very  charming  fashion, 
illustrating  a  lusty,  a  tender  trait  of  Nature.  For  if 
vines  in  wantonness  pull  down  the  strong  they  oftener 
clothe  the  naked  and  the  dying  in  garments  of  living 
beauty. 


By  that  vagary  of  fancy  which  controls  oftentimes  one's 
feet  and  leads  them  where  it  will,  I  am  led  along  a  road, 


8o  AUGUST 

this  afternoon,  that  is  bordered  on  one  side  with  trees 
and  on  the  other  by  low-lying  tobacco  fields  over  which 
waves  of  heat  shimmer.  There  are  lilac  shadows  in  the 
coves  and  vistas  of  the  distant  wood,  but  at  my  feet  on 
the  green  grass  the  shadow  color  is  lost.  I  hear  the 
wood  pewee  again.  There  are  Fall  leaves  on  the  black 
gums  and  sassafras.  The  tobacco  fields  are  blue-green. 
The  clouds,  with  their  bases  lost  in  mist,  gleam  like 
sunlit  snow.  In  the  quiet  I  can  hear  the  sigh  of  a  fall 
ing  leaf,  a  passing  unit  in  the  great  sum  of  beauty.  A 
warbler  sings  somewhere  in  the  woods  beyond.  I  follow 
but  he  eludes  me,  yet  in  following  I  have  found  full 
flowered  clumps  of  Joe  Pye  weed. 


Skullcaps  bloom  at  the  wood's  edge.  The  sumac 
balls  are  reddish  lavender.  Wood  smoke  drifts  across 
fallow  lands  in  long  scarfs  of  bluish-gray.  The  old 
charm  of  the  pastoral  life  is  come  again.  How  good  is 
the  smell  of  the  smoke ! 

The  sun  sets  red — above  it  a  gleaming  thread  of  red 
gold. 


Night.     Starlight  and  the  dusky  trees  and  the  song  of 
the    white    crickets.     There    are   two  distinct   choruses 


AUGUST  81 

answering  one  another — with  katydids  and  brown  crickets 
chiming  in  at  regular  intervals.  In  the  darkness  here, 
the  weeds  and  grasses  are  alive  with  song.  There, 
above,  silence — a  great  violet  space  through  which  the 
stars  shine. 


Boneset  whitens.  About  me  the  jays  chatter  shrilly, 
now  and  again  uttering  their  peculiar  'musical  notes — 
their  love  notes  it  would  seem,  as  grateful  to  the  ear  as 
their  plumage  is  to  the  eye.  Where  the  soil  is  thinnest 
there  are  many  color  hints  of  Fall — a  red  leaf  on  the 
maple,  a  golden  on  the  walnut.  The  days  are  brooding 
on  the  change. 

I  am  in  Song  Lane  again.  The  birds  are  thick  in  the 
wild  cherry  trees,  but  the  sun  puts  an  aura  about  my 
glasses,  and  my  songsters  are  all  clothed  in  rainbow 
colors,  so  that  I  cannot  see  them  in  their  own  plumage 
as  I  would  like.  On  one  side  a  tall  untrimmed  osage 
hedge  makes  an  ideal  place  for  the  birds  to  nest  and 
roost.  Here  under  the  shade  of  overhanging  boughs 
one  may  watch,  if  very  quiet,  the  home  manners  of 
many  a  shy  fellow,  and  hear  a  number  of  love  secrets. 

Mullein  and  pennyroyal  encroach  on  the  beaten  ways. 
The  boneset  is  in  full  blossom,  calling  with  wholesome 


32  AUGUST 

fragrance  for  the  bees.     Boneset  loves  the  fence  corners 

o 

and  the  edge  of  wet  woods — the  wet  woods  where  sweet- 
gums  grow,  shooting  up  straight  and  slender,  graceful 
boles,  columns  of  stately  beauty  in  God's  temple.  And 
beautifully  the  sun  strikes  through  these  temples,  lighting 
a  column  here  and  there,  touching  the  leafy  arches  with 
changeful  color. 

The  glory  of  the  morning  !  The  black  gum,  herald 
of  Fall,  flashes  through  the  green.  In  the  east  the  blue 
is  flecked  with  luminous  white  clouds  that  are  doubtless 
the  cool  tents  of  the  spirits  of  Dawn. 

It  is  a  time  of  bubbling  over  of  song.  Even  the  wood 
pewee  almost  ceases  to  drawl :  is  quickened  into  rapture 
among  the  goldening  boughs. 

I  heard  this  afternoon  the  long-billed  marsh  wren,  in 
a  little  brake  of  green  where  I  sat  listening  to  chewink, 
the  level  sunbeams  glistening  on  his  coat.  But  the  song 
I  shall  never  forget — that  I  never  heard  before — was  the 
song  of  the  Carolina  wren.  Through  a  fringe  of  sprouts 
he  looked  out  at  me — I  could  have  touched  him  with 
my  hand — and  then  he  rang  his  tiny  bell,  so  silvery,  so 
true — a  call  to  the  fairies,  a  cadenza  of  dewdrops  for  the 
heart  of  Silence. 


SEPTEMBER. 

Gray  trees,  that  love  the  folded  hills, 

For  whom  the  seasons  hold 
The  tender  green,  the  lusty  green, 

The  varying  red  and  gold— 
To  whom  the  stars  are  friends,  and  rills, 

And  voices  of  the  night, 
Who  raptured  see  Dawn's  mystery 

And  miracle  of  light : 

O  hear  me  as  I  come  to  you 

From  yonder  toil  and  smoke, 
And  make  me  free  as  you  are  free 

Who  wear  no  badge  nor  yoke — 
Who  to  the  soul  of  Beauty  true 

Wait  for  the  touch  of  Fall ; 
The  chill,  the  haze,  the  leafless  days — 

The  hand  that  quiets  all. 

The  moss  is  green  about  your  feet, 
With  beauty  you  are  crowned ; 

The  sunlight  weaves  thro'  falling  leaves 
A  glory  all  around: 

The  paths  that  lead  to  you  are  sweet 
With  wholesome  scents  and  wild, — 

0  make  me  free  as  you  are  free, 
As  strong,  as  linden' led. 

1  stand  beside  you,  far  above 
The  white  clouds  loiter  slow — 

Your  branches  lie  against  the  sky 

In  netted  gray  and  glow ; 
Your  long,  still  shadows  eastward  move, 

With  mist  each  hollow  fills, 
A  vesper  calls,  and  twilight  falls 

Upon  the  folded  hills. 


84  SEPTEMBER 

The  stars  come  out,  I  see  them  gleam 

Far  in  the  purple  deep; 
Your  flocks  are  they  who  gently  stray 

Thro'  pleasant  vales  of  sleep, 
While  you  keep  watch  with  many  a  dream, 

O  good  gray  shepherd  trees, 
All  silence  clad  and  seeming  sad 

With  sacred  memories. 

NATURE  takes  no  notice  of  the  marks  on  our  candles, 
the  shadows  on  our  dials,  the  hands  on  our  clocks. 
We  may  say  here  August  ends  and  September  begins,  but 
Nature,  like  a  master  colorist,  so  blends  them  that  there 
is  no  sharp  line  of  distinction.  The  warm  tones  of  Fall 
follow  the  cool  tones  of  Summer  as  harmoniously  as  tints 
are  blended  in  the  evening  or  the  morning  skies.  Na 
ture  is  not  at  all  concerned  about  our  yesterdays  or  to 
morrows.  She  knows  only  one  eternal  Present. 

The  hedges  are  gay  with  beggar  ticks,  pink  knotweed, 
azuratum.  The  sky  is  cloudless,  the  wind  comes  with 
that  strange  yet  winning  message  from  a  far-away  land. 
The  tap,  tap,  tap  of  a  woodpecker  is  heard.  The"  red 
head  "  of  the  clearing.  What  bird  is  more  constant 
than  he  ?  Which  one  of  them  all  has  a  better,  a  truer 
message  ?  No  matter  if  skies  be  dark  or  bright  he  has 
a  cheery  word,  he  beats  a  tonic  drum.  Though  all 
should  go,  he  stays,  he  changes  not.  Type  of  good 
homely  things,  of  plain  living,  of  daily  hope  and  joy. 


SEPTEMBER  85 

Goldenrod,  elder  loaded  with  berries,  and  garget  cover 
the  woods  and  fields.  How  tall  the  weeds  are  grown, 
each  with  its  harvest  of  seed.  Over  the  fences  and  bushes 
the  clematis,  "  old  man's  beard,"  is  flowing  in  silver  floss. 
The  yellow  bellied  fly  catcher  is  taking  a  meal  under  a 
dense  shade  of  gum  and  oak,  darting  down  and  return 
ing  to  his  bough  with  a  flutter.  Close  by  is  a  deserted 
plant  bed  thick  with  pink-and-white  blossoms  of  tobacco. 
A  beautiful  growth  is  the  climbing  false  buckwheat  that 
grows  in  great  profusion  here,  blending  its  dainty  green 
with  the  garnet  of  the  pokeberry. 

The  tobacco  fields  are  bordered  with  sneeze  weed  and 
marigold.  This  way  leads  me  to  the  great  "  flat "  woods, 
the  home  of  the  cardinal  flower,  where  in  dim  aisles  the 
underbrush  is  a  tangled  mass  of  spicewood  and  hazel  cut 
by  narrow  slashes  of  marsh  grass. 

The  elms  and  shell-bark  hickories  here  are  magnificent. 
Century  giants  hale  as  October. 

Coming  along  the  lane  leading  from  the  flat  woods, 
my  eye  caught  instantly  the  vivid  blue  of  the  shadows 
on  a  weather  beaten  board  fence, — I  had  never  seen 
shadows  so  blue  before.  The  declining  sun  hung  low  over 
a  bordering  hill  and  atmospheric  conditions  were  just  at 
their  best  for  a  perfect  exhibition  of  complementary 
liSfht. 


86  SEPTEMBER 

There  is  no  color  but  the  pure  gold  of  sunset  this  after 
noon.  No  clouds,  and  in  the  east  near  the  horizon  deep 
lilac,  and  above,  parallel  bars  of  pink  blend  with  the  pale 
lilac  of  the  upper  sky.  A  great  calm  has  fallen  on  the 
fields. 

All  along  the  way  the  golden-green  tobacco  is  being 
housed,  the  winding  tracks  of  the  busy  wagons  glisten 
ing — gossamers  of  toil.  Chewink  is  still  here  with  his 
song  of  high  places.  The  spice  wood  has  put  on  its  red 
berries. 


I  never  know  half  of  the  beauty  of  a  tree   until  I    lie 
beneath  it. 


A  quiet  September  day — the  fields  linked  in  a  chain  of 
golden  gossamers.  The  Summer  birds  are  departing. 
Here  in  the  woods  I  hear  only  the  woodpecker  and  the 
flicker. 

What  a  change  in  two  weeks  !  Then  but  a  few  clumps 
of  golden  rod  were  yellow,  and  the  evening  primrose  was 
in  full  bloom  with  wild  morning  glories  clambering  over 
it,  now  the  primroses  are  almost  gone,  the  creek 
banks  are  starred  with  marigolds.  The  clover  blossoms 
are  faded,  but  in  their  stead  has  come  a  new  beauty — a 


SEPTEMBER  87 

beauty  of  reddening  sumac  leaves.  The  milk  weed  bolls 
are  opening,  loosing  their  argosies  of  silver. 

Insects  furnish  the  music  now  with  only  an  occasional 
bird  note. 

The  moon  is  near  its  full  and  a  short  while  before  sun 
down  hangs  white  over  the  woods.  One  of  the  loveliest 
of  all  Nature's  hours  is  this  of  mingled  sunlight  and 
moonlight.  When  the  west  is  faint  rose,  and  the  east  is 
clear  lilac,  when  the  two  lights  meet  and  blend  in  the 
upper  sky. 

Wild  sunflowers  still  shine  like  golden  stars  in  the 
damp  woods.  Late  as  it  is  bumble  bees  fly  past  laden 
with  pollen. 

Nature  gives  new  beauty  day  by  day  on  through  the 
round  of  years.  Endless  variety,  no  two  stars,  no  two 
sunsets  alike.  This  evening  there  is  a  pale-blue  sky 
with  light  golden  clouds  shading  upward  into  purple, 
and  downward  into  flame  color  at  the  horizon.  Color 
after  color  taking  on  new  shades,  changing  so  rapidly 
that  the  eye  scarce  delights  in  one  ere  another  is  there, 
passing  from  warm  and  vivid  light  into  calm  violet  and 
at  last,  with  one  white  star,  into  the  full  glory  of  night. 
And  as  the  light  fades,  the  river  shines  tranquilly  through 
the  trees  a  mirror  of  silver. 


88  SEPTEMBER 

To-day  I  have  taken  to  the  river.  The  reflections 
how  beautiful !  Deep  waving  green  in  the  still  water, 
with  the  sun  low  in  the  west.  The  water  falling  white 
from  the  wheel  of  a  passing  steamer  is  changed  to  lilac. 
The  waves  roll  in  as  if  they  were  oiled,  each  wave  pre 
senting  a  facet  of  golden  light  and  shadow.  A  long 
smokestack  in  reflection  seems  broken  into  a  hundred 
pieces,  and  the  sun,  smiting  a  window-pane  on  the  eastern 
shore,  falls,  a  spiral  of  gold,  in  the  wrinkled  water. 

On  one  side  of  a  little  island,  where  the  water  is  still 
and  the  willows  thick,  two  cranes  watch  noiselessly. 

As  the  sun  sinks  lower  the  waves  take  on  a  deeper 
purple  that  is  broken,  on  the  beach,  into  clear  green 
fringed  with  white.  Fantastic  scarf  clouds  wave  over 
the  sun.  And  now  the  afterglow — sky  and  river  flooded 
with  intense  carmine. 


Dear  trees,  this  voice  that  speaks  to  you  and  me 
While  all  about  us  lies  the  mist  of  Fall, 

Shall  not  we  sometime  know  its  mystery — 
The  meaning  of  its  call  ? 

Perhaps,  even  now,  you  in  your  robes  so  bright. 

You — lifted  up  and  looking  far  away — 
May  see  the  glow  of  some  diviner  light 

Crowning  the  coming  day. 

List,  hear  you  not  ?    The  milkweed  down  is  blown 
As  by  a  Spirit's  breath — what  draws  so  near 

That  on  my  soul  its  shadow  now  is  thrown— 
A  rapture  and  a  fear  ? 


SEPTEMBER  89 

Who  will  say  when  all  the  birds  are  flown  South  ? 
Yesterday  when  the  sky  was  gray  I  thought  they  were 
gone  ;  but  to-day  the  primrose  is  in  bloom,  the  robin  is 
still  here.  In  these  periodical  flittings  there  are  always 
loiterers  who  are  loth  to  leave  even  when  there  comes 
a  touch  of  frost,  and  the  scarlet  and  gold  of  Fall  takes 
the  place  of  Summer's  green.  Blessed  be  these  loiterers, 
and  sad  is  the  day  when  they,  too,  leave  and  the  woods 
are  still. 


OCTOBER. 


Now  on  the  tepees  of  the  corn  the  smoke 

Lies  lilac-blue — a  veil  of  tender  haze 
Softening  the  landscape  of  these  mellow  days 

Of  yellowing  poplar  and  of  reddening  oak. 
Thus  came  the  season — the  Great  Spirit  woke 

From  dreams  untroubled  and  behold  the  maize 
Was  heaped  within  his  lodge,  his  people's  praise, 

And  full  of  love  He  unto  them  thus  spoke : 
' '  In  every  year  forever  there  shall  be — 

What  time  the  nuts  fall  and  the  oak  is  red — 
A  season  dreamy — holy  unto  me, 

In  which  the  sweet  smoke  of  my  peace-pipe  shed 
Upon  the  earth  shall  hallow  it,  and  give 

Peace,  joy,  and  plenty — that  the  world  may  live." 

AGIC  colors  are  in  the  woods.  Some  of  the  oaks 
are  a  rich  glossy  green,  others  red  and  scarlet. 
The  leaves  of  the  gum  are  a  light  clear  red  mingled  with 
tints  of  yellow. — I  hear  the  hoot  of  a  horned  owl  in  the 
distance  a  lonely  call  that  the  negroes  interpret  aptly — 
"  Chick-er-a — goose — goose — goose  /  " 

The  hedges  are  full  of  sparrows,  that  go  in  flocks 
now — vesper,  fox,  black-faced,  white  headed — and  with 
them,  leading  the  way,  a  cardinal. 

The  corn  is  in  shock — row  after  row  of  wigwams 
where  the  warriors  of  Summer  rest — their  shining  harness 


M 


OCTOBER  9i 

put  off  forever.  The  sky  is  a  dark  blue-gray,  and 
the  only  wings  I  can  see  high  against  it  are  those  of  the 
sparrow-hawk  graceful  and  swift — whose  shadow  is  as 
the  shadow  of  death  to  all  the  little  earth-loving  birds 
now  hidden  in  thickets  and  tall  weeds. 

The  ragweeds  are  a  cold  purple,  thick  on  the  stubble 
fields,  and  of  such  even  height  that  the  hills  covered  with 
them  appear,  at  a  little  distance,  as  if  fallowed  and  har 
rowed.  In  the  hollows  and  around  the  edges  of  the 
fields  glow  charming  bits  of  color.  The  maroon  of  the 
young  sweetgums — the  scarlet  of  young  sassafras.  Color 
that  handled  by  man  might  look  harsh  or  garish,  seen 
through  this  hazy  atmosphere  is  wonderfully  soft,  yet 
brilliant. 


The  acorns  begin  to  fall,  pattering  in  quick  showers 
when  the  wind  comes  by.  The  air  has  a  frosty  taste. 
There  are  many  red  and  yellow  leaves,  and  gossamers 
twinkle  with  a  new  light.  The  eddying  leaves  settle  in 
snug  little  hollows,  or  heap  themselves  in  brier  thickets, 
as  if  forewarned  of  bitter  days  to  come.  Life  everlasting 
sparkles  in  pure  fragrance  on  the  hillside. 

Life  Everlasting  !  All  along  the  way  we  look  for  it, 
led  on  by  its  strange,  imperishable  perfume  ;  some  day 
shall  we  not  find  it  on  God's  hills  ? 


92  OCTOBER 

Flocks  of  blackbirds  are  flying  west  beneath  a  cold, 
cloudy  sky.  This  evening  I  noticed  a  very  remarkable 
display  of  sunset  colors.  Above  me  were  dull  gray 
clouds.  Then  suddenly,  two  maples,  not  over  fifty  feet 
away  were  lighted  in  their  tops  with  a  clear,  bright 
orange,  as  if  the  upper  boughs  of  the  trees  were  in  lull 
Fall  dress.  Some  tall  oaks  were  also  brightened  in  the 
same  manner,  but  not  so  beautifully  as  the  maples.  Far 
off  a  clump  of  trees,  through  a  vista  of  red  maples,  was 
aflame  with  this  unusual  light.  The  sun  could  not 
be  seen,  but  as  the  light  in  the  trees  faded,  overhead 
shone  pink  and  violet  bars  bending  to  the  horizon. 


The  wind  is  from  frostland,  but  I  hear  a  robin  piping 
a  rather  feeble  strain.  Song  Lane  holds  now  but  a 
serene  memory  of  those  who  sang  there. 

About  a  mile  beyond  Song  Lane  there  is  a  knoll  that 
overlooks  the  surrounding  country;  where  the  ground 
falls  gently  away  in  fallow  land  and  meadow.  It  is  a 
place  I  love,  a  breezy  haunt  of  birds.  Wild  cherry  trees 
crown  it,  but  now  the  leaves  have  drifted  from  them  as 
if  following  the  birds,  and  my  heart  follows  too. 

How  lovely  are  the  shadows  slipping  eastward  over 
the  fallow  ground  !  Noiseless  couriers  that  go  before  the 
stars  and  the  dawn — now  clad  in  purple,  now  in  yellow, 


OCTOBER  93 

now   in   green  as  they  cross  the  fields  of  ragweed  and 
of  new- sown  wheat. 

And  from  this  place  how  the  wide  horizon  opens  new 
scenes — vaster  distances  that  make  for  enchantment. 
Here  at  dusk  come  the  vesper  sparrow  to  send  out  over 
the  fields  a  hymn  of  thankfulness,  an  angelus  of  peace. 
Here  often  my  heart  has  been  lifted  up  by  visions  of  the 
borderland — the  meeting  of  earth  and  sky — by  a  voice  : 
"  Enter  into  rest." 


Chewink  sang  again  this  afternoon,  and  I  should  love 
him  the  more  because  he  stays  so  long  with  me  and 
comes  again  so  early  in  the  Spring. 


O  great  flower  of  light !  The  meanest  weed  that 
grows  seems  now  to  share  in  the  splendor  of  the  sun. 
Gossamers  bear  his  golden  words  far  across  the  hills. 

Dusk  has  fallen,  and  the  oaks  have  clothed  them 
selves  in  mystery.  A  bat  weaves  strange  circles  about 
them. 

This  afternoon  was  surpassingly  beautiful.  There  were 
no  clouds,  but  after  the  sun  had  fallen,  bright  orange  light 
filled  the  west— brightest  near  the  horizon  and  shading 


94  OCTOBER 

up  into  pale  blue,  through  which  shone  a  star  of  the  first 
magnitude  shaking  with  crystal  light.  The  orange  grad 
ually  gave  place  to  red  that  blended  into  violet — the  star 
gaining  in  brilliancy  and  deepening  in  color,  and  the  blue- 
gray  river  mirroring  and  softening  all. 


The  ring  of  the  axe  !  How  fast  the  woods  are  being 
burned  and  cut  away !  Slaughter  without  mercy,  as 
strong  men  slay  weaker  men — somewhat  because  they 
must,  largely  because  they  can.  The  flowers  spring  up 
at  the  appointed  season,  the  birds  return,  but  a  noble 
tree  once  gone  comes  no  more.  The  birds  return  ?  No, 
soon  the  warblers  will  not  return,  for  their  woodland 
homes  shall  have  been  destroyed.  Here  the  lanes,  even, 
in  many  places  have  been  stripped  of  their  trees  that  a 
few  more  rows  of  tobacco  and  corn  may  grow. 

But  there  is  a  wood  I  know  that  so  far  has  escaped 
this  vandalism,  a  wood  almost  untouched  by  the  hand 
of  man,  where  wild  things  grow  in  thick  underbrush, 
hazel,  wild  spice,  wahoo,  pawpaw,  bitter-sweet,  button- 
bush,  sumac,  and  countless  more  of  Nature's  untutored 
children. 

Thither  my  feet  tend  to-day,  a  calm,  sparkling  day 
after  a  week  of  rain.  There  was  a  heavy  frost  this 
morning.  The  air  is  full  of  its  delicious  flavor,  mingled 


OCTOBER  95 

with  a  whiff  of  cedar  as  I  pass  a  grove  on  the  way.  The 
woodpeckers  chatter  incessantly,  flying  along  the  fence, 
tapping  their  welcome.  The  tall  grass,  russet  green,  is 
clothed  in  frost  crystals.  The  dogwoods  are  loaded  with 
scarlet  berries.  The  swamp  holly  lights  the  way  with 
many  a  ruddy  torch.  The  sky  is  blue  and  lavender. 
The  poison  ivy  flames  in  the  trees  russet-red  and  scarlet. 
The  paths  are  overhung  with  boneset  and  pokeweed. 
All  little  shrubs  stand  out  glowing  in  color,  challenging 
attention.  One  tulip  tree  that  I  admire  particularly  is  a 
rich  yellow-green  threaded  with  deep  wine-red  that  I  at 
first  thought  was  one  of  Nature's  color  whims  in  which 
she  sometimes  stains  a  leaf  yellow,  and  a  sister  leaf  on 
the  same  bough  red,  but  on  looking  closer  I  found  that 
the  wine-red  came  from  a  spray  of  poison  ivy  that  had 
won  its  way  to  the  very  top  of  the  tree  and  thence  leaped 
out  like  a  tongue  of  flame.  The  wild  grape  also  is 
especially  brilliant  in  color.  A  fine  clear  red  that  the 
sun  makes  almost  luminous. 

Ah,  to  spend  such  a  day  in  the  woods.  A  do-nothing 
day  under  the  trees,  with  a  canopy  of  shifting  light  and 
color,  a  bed  of  fragrant  leaves.  To  watch  the  jay,  the 
cardinal,  the  red-headed  woodpecker,  the  flicker— such 
constant  and  cheery  friends  who  weave  their  joy  fulness 
into  the  woods,  and  fill  it  with  delightful  music.  And 
the  taste  of  a  sassafrass  twig,  how  sweet  !  The  tinkle  of 


96  OCTOBER 

a  half-hid  stream,  what  melody  !     My  soul,  as  I  sit  here, 
keeps  repeating  Stevenson's  lines — 

"  Here  let  me  lie, 
Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky." 

The  wideness  of  it  !     The  glory  of  it !     The  thrill  of 
it !     The  longing,  the  longing  ! 


I  have  walked  in  the  great  hills  to-day  and  found 
them  clothed  in  shining  red  'and  orange.  The  little 
clumps  of  sassafras  were  dripping  color;  splashes  of  it 
on  the  fields  of  ragweed,  along  the  fence  rows,  in  the 
tobacco  fields. 


Wintry  looking.  Clouds  with  deep  streaks  of  orange 
in  the  west.  The  willows  are  almost  bare  of  leaves. 
Flocks  of  doves  whistle  swiftly  by,  going  to  roost. 
Ghosts  of  goldenrod  haunt  the  creek.  A  lonely  tree 
waits  by  the  road.  What  are  its  thoughts  on  the  marge 
of  the  wide,  deep  night. 


A  windy  day,  the  sky  covered  with  clouds  that  drift 
ceaselessly,  the  prevailing  color  tones  gray  and  violet. 
The  wind  roars  through  the  oaks,  hickories,  maples,  ash. 


OCTOBER  97 

I  see  the  tops  of  tall  oaks  rocking  in  the  blast  while  the 
roaring  draws  nearer  and  nearer  until  the  trees  close  at 
hand  take  it  up  and  send  down  whirling  showers  of 
leaves.  The  hickories  are  a  fine  old  gold.  In  the  flats 
that  lie  across  the  meadow  there  are  rich  notes  of  red 
and  saffron  in  the  sweetgums.  A  leaf  dances  before  the 
wind  like  another  dazzling  Herodias.  Bars  of  light  fall 
obliquely  through  the  clouds  and  spread  fan-like  over 
the  fields.  What  pictures  they  suggest  of  the  far  east, 
these  "  Wings  of  the  Morning  !  " 

As  I  come  up  the  road  there  is  a  sudden  burst  of 
sunshine  from  the  western  sky  and  the  clouds  in  the 
north,  seen  through  a  depression  in  the  road,  change  into 
beautiful  indigo-blue.  The  wind  blows  chilly,  but  in  the 
treetops  sporting  with  the  wind  is  a  flock  of  black  birds. 
How  pleasant  in  their  chatter  !  How  like  pan  pipes 
their  liquid  notes.  A  major  of  Spring  running 
through  the  minor  of  the  passing  year.  The  pond  is 
rumpled  gray.  The  winged  elm  is  dashed  with  gold.  The 
broomsedge  makes  patches  of  brownish-yellow  on  the 
hillside. 

Led  by  a  choir  of  blackbirds,  'neath  a  sky 
Of  rose  and  violet,  October  goes. 


NOVEMBER. 

"Humility  like  darkness  reveals  the  heavenly  lights.     God 
will  see  that  you  do  not  want  society." 

AIN    and   drifting    leaves.     Leaves    that    dance    in 
rows — that  lie  limp  and  still. 


R 


Exquisite  colors  may  often  be  seen,  on  a  crisp  morn 
ing,  in  the  steam,  as  it  rises  spreading  like  a  geyser  : 
pinkish-purple  and  lavender.  The  ever  changing  curling 
column  suggests  the  very  spirit  of  liberty,  of  beauty. 
Expanding,  drifting  away  under  a  pale  blue  sky  of  serene 
loveliness. 


How  fresh,  how  genuine  are  the  Fall  grasses — how 
grateful  after  an  artificially  heated  room  or  the  perfume 
of  a  hot  house  flower. 


What  is  more  charming  than  a  walk,  down  a  winding 
way,  in  the  Fall  ?  Through  the  wood  that  is  so  un 
mindful  of  the  garrulous  world. — Through  the  rustling 
leaves — every  turn  revealing  new  color,  new  vistas  under 


NOVEMBER  99 

the  uplifted  boughs.  One  such  day  I  shall  never  forget. 
The  sky  was  crowded  with  shining  hosts — golden  wing 
on  golden  wing — a  multitude  no  man  could  number. 
The  forest  was  rapt — expectant — as  if  God  were  near. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  if  all  heaven  and  earth  were  chanting 
low,  reverently  :  "  Holy — Holy — Holy  !  " 


A  gray  day — with  rain.  The  last  aster — the  last  even 
ing  primrose — the  last  bird  note — whispers  the  wind. 

The  tide  has  turned  back.  Swarms  of  gnats  hang 
over  the  road.  Wild  beans  peep  at  me  through  the 
fence  ;  they  have  kept  a  blossom.  Primroses,  too,  mock 
me — the  frost  has  not  driven  them  all  away. 

The  river  is  low.  Cicada,  the  last  of  his  tribe,  beats 
a  stridulous  drum.  Across  the  still  river  lies  the  sun's 
fiery  splendor.  A  skiff  rowed  slowly  up  stream  leaves  a 
narrow,  silver  wake.  As  the  sun  nears  the  horizon 
purple  tints  appear  in  the  water ;  the  path  of  the  sun 
deepens  in  color,  grows  broader.  The  mist  rises  in  the 
far  corn  fields  and  spreads  like  a  great  lake  half  seen 
through  broken  woodlands.  The  sun  is  dimmed  by  an 
almost  imperceptible  haze.  Crossing  the  path  of  the  sun 
obliquely  a  boat  changes  the  still  brightness  into  rippling 
gold.  The  purple  deepens  with  one  delicate  streak  of  green 
ish  tint  running  out  from  the  shore  half  way  across  the 

7 


ioo  NOVEMBER 

stream.  Below  the  sun  there  is  reddish  purple.  Clouds  ap 
pear  above,  golden,  as  if  illumined  from  within,  stretching 
level  across  the  horizon.  The  purple  fades,  the  silvery 
streaks  have  almost  disappeared.  The  lower  disc  of  the  sun 
is  darkened  and  two  bands  of  dark  cloud  almost  meet  above 
it.  The  overlying  clouds  grow  lighter,  the  sky  above  is 
pale  blue.  Wind  ripples  appear  on  the  water  and  with 
the  ripples  the  greenish  streaks  circling  and  broadening. 
The  sun  sinks  beamless,  red.  A  leafless  sycamore  is 
outlined  white  against  the  sky.  Slowly,  slowly,  the  sun 
sinks,  suffusing  the  horizon  above  it  with  carmine.  The 
clouds  catch  the  afterglow.  The  moon  rises  above  the 
trees  gathering  light. 


The  primroses  are  still  laughing  at  me  from  sheltered 
places.  I  have  noticed  that  on  cool  dewy  mornings 
the  primroses  are  just  as  beautiful  as  at  nightfall,  and 
that  their  blossoms  open  to  the  moth  of  day  as  well  as 
to  the  moth  of  night.  Their  flowers  are  even  fresher  and 
more  fragrant  in  the  morning,  and  they  often  continue 
open  until  mid-day. 


Dusk-clothed  the  day  went  softly  by — 
I  heard  the  cedar's  whispering  croon, 

And  I  saw,  at  the  rim  of  a  rose-lit  sky, 
The  yellow  blossom  of  the  moon. 


NOVEMBER  101 

Coming  into  the  field  this  morning  I  surprised  a  hawk 
at  his  breakfast.  He  flew  like  a  flash  over  the  woods 
and  dropped  out  of  sight.  Lightness,  grace,  strength  ! 
A  much  slandered  fellow,  too,  by  all  who  love  to  be 
killing. 

The  tobacco  is  housed,  and  I  sit  on  the  deserted  skids 
where  it  was  hung  for  a  while  to  yellow.  The  crickets 
chirp  incessantly.  A  crow  flies  far  overhead  cawing. 
The  corn  that  is  left  standing  is  all  in  ragged  regimentals. 
The  sumacs  are  still  a  blaze  of  color — scarlet,  garnet, 
crimson.  Before  the  nearing  brier-hook  they  say  :  "  We 
who  are  about  to  die  salute  you  !  " 


Late  this  afternoon  I  heard  a  screech-owl.  As  Thoreau 
says,  he  was  wailing,  "  Oh,  that  I  had  never  been  born  !  " 
"  Oh,  that  1  had  never  been  born!  " 

How  still  the  woods  are— mute  beneath  the  hand  of 
Fall.  Are  they  not  listening  to  the  spirit  voice  of  the 
lark  from  the  far  fields  ? 


The  smell  of  the  rotting  leaves.     How  small  seem  the 
sermons  of  men  in  this  thought  of  a  day  that  is  dead. 


102  NOVEMBER 

About  five  o'clock  this  afternoon,  as  I  went  afield  after 
a  day  spent  with  the  master  melodists  of  the  mind — 
Tennyson,  Emerson,  Lanier— I  heard  the  song-sparrow. 
He,  too,  is  a  master  melodist.  A  lyrist  of  dewy,  of  sun- 
parched,  of  November  fields.  And  at  sunset  I  heard 
his  companion,  the  vesper-sparrow — a  gentler  poet  whom 
Christ  would  have  loved  had  He  walked  through  this 
twilight  land.  Ah,  that  far  away  time — or  is  it  ? — is  He 
"  nearer  than  I  think  ?  " 


These  rainy  days  of  November,  when  the  rain  is  like 
a  mist  watering  the  face  of  the  earth,  when  the  bowed 
and  broken  weeds  wait  like  mourners  for  one  who  loves 
them  to  speak  a  word  of  cheer,  of  hope,  to  lay  his  hands 
upon  their  heads,  to  meditate  in  sympathy  with  them  on 
the  change  that  has  come,  the  death  of  the  flowers,  the 
departure  of  the  birds,  the  waning  of  the  strength  of  the 
sun  ;  these  rainy  days,  are  they  not  the  fallow  days  of 
the  heart  when  much  seed  is  sown,  for  an  awakening  by 
and  by  ?  Do  we  not  sit  at  the  feet  of  many  a  Master  we 
had  long  neglected,  and  think  on  things  it  is  not  well  to 
forget?  Perchance  we  may  learn  better  how  to  "sell 
our  clothes  and  keep  our  thoughts."  Perhaps  we  shall 
drink  deeper  of  the  well  of  Kindliness ;  know  more  of 
the  voices  and  of  the  silence.  Or  going  afield  it  may  be 


NOVEMBER  103 

we  shall  see  that  the  "  dull,  dreary  days  "  are  not  so 
dreary  after  all.  That  Beauty  loves  a  gray  day.  That 
joy  is  immortal,  and  learn  of  Him  who  loves  the  sparrows 
that  are  sold  for  a  farthing;. 


The  bright  colors  have  passed  from  wood  and  field, 
the  sky-line  of  the  forest  is  now  no  longer  rounded  into 
domes,  but  is  broken  into  spires  here  and  there,  into  bare 
limbs  tossed  aloft,  into  a  fringe  of  slender  boughs  and 
interlacing  twigs. 

The  landscapes  are  hazier  in  the  distance,  but  closer, 
form  is  dominant  over  grays  and  browns. 

The  crows  in  long,  dark  chains  swing  over  the  field. — 
Near  nightfall  I  have  seen  hundreds  of  them  flying 
toward  the  hills  above  the  river  where  for  years  they 
have  roosted.  Out  of  the  haze  they  come  as  if  by 
magic  troubling  the  quiet  with  their  cawing. 

Sometime  ago  the  weedy  strings  on  which  the  grass 
hoppers  and  white  crickets  play  were  broken  and  their 
music  ceased— but  not  so  with  the  brown  cricket.  He 
is  a  musician  of  Winter  bringing  in,  if  we  invite  him,  the 
q;ood  cheer  of  out-of-doors  to  the  hearth  stone,  the 

o 


104  NOVEMBER 

cheerup  of  a  life  that  is  not  daunted  by  simple  living. — 
Give  him  a  wood  fire,  he  likes  the  smell  of  oak  and 
hickory — and  he  will  tell  how  the  woods  whisper  at 
night — how  the  stars  talk  to  one  another — how  the  birds 
plant  and  gather  in  their  harvest,  and  how  not  to 
trouble  oneself  much  about  new  things,  "  whether  of 
clothes  or  friends." 

The  cattle  wait  at  the  gate.  The  world  is  red  with 
the  camp  fires  of  the  army  of  the  sun. 

How  may  I  know  a  tree  ?  As  I  would  know  a  true 
friend,  by  communion  heart  to  heart.  How  may  I  know 
its  message  ?  By  lying  at  its  feet. 

Gray  trees  that  love  the  twilight  land, 

Of  night  so  unafraid — 

What  rest  shall  be,  what  peace  for  me 

The  night  when  I  am  dead? 

So  calm,  so  prohet-like  you  stand 

Here  while  the  glory  pales — 

What  lies  before — what  brighter  shore 

When  this  good  sunlight  fails  ? 

The  clouds  like  crimson  torches  burn 
High  in  the  eastern  blue — 
The  afterglow  that  passes  slow 
In  many  a  radiant  hue. 
And  unto  it  my  soul  doth  turn, 
Doth  fearless  voyage  on — 
This  holy  light  above  the  night 
Shall  pledge  me  of  the  dawn. 


DECEMBER. 

THE  first  snowfall.  It  has  been  so  long  since  the 
little  flakes  visited  the  earth  they  are  doubtful  of  a 
welcome  even  by  the  sparrows  who  sit  on  the  fence  with 
heads  cocked  to  one  side  in  a  very  knowing  way.  One — 
two — three — what  are  you  waiting  for,  nestlings  ?  'Tis  a 
long,  long  time  you  were  away,  and  the  bosom  of  our 
mother  yearns  for  you.  Faster,  faster!  now  you  come 
merrily.  The  sparrows  are  glad  after  all  and  so  am  I, 
though  none  of  us  are  as  glad  as  the  Great  Mother. 
She  has  much  to  tell  you,  as  you  lie  close  to  her  heart, 
secrets  for  you  and  her  only,  secrets  as  deep  as  life  and 
death.  Of  how  you  may  make  the  wheat  grow  and  fill 
the  great  cisterns  in  the  silent  places. 

The  ragweed  fields  are  changing  from  dull  purple  to 
white  as  they  catch  the  feathers  of  the  snow.  A  broom- 
grass  clump  near  at  hand  is  like  the  plume  of  Navarre. 
The  cornfields  are  tawny  and  dun.  The  woods  look 
almost  black  against  the  horizon. 

I  stand  on  a  high  hill  and  watch  the  snowfall.  I  can 
see  over  an  area  of  seven  or  eight  miles,  and  I  never 
looked  on  a  quieter  scene.  The  farm  houses  are  white  ; 


io6  DECEMBER 

the  curling  smoke  only,  telling  of  life  within.  The  corn 
shocks  are  like  the  deserted  tents  of  a  great  army. 

In  so  holy  an  hour  who  can  measure  the  ebb  and  flow 
of  thought,  of  emotions,  in  the  soul  as  it  stands  in  the 
presence  chamber  of  Nature  and  waits  on  the  footfall  of 
the  Great  Power.  Not  in  the  sensuousness  of  Summer, 
not  in  the  pageantry  of  Fall,  not  in  the  passion  of  Spring, 
shall  one  see  as  in  the  stillness  of  the  white  earth  the 
Spirit  that  moves  in  all.  Here  are  met  Life  and  Death — 
the  light  and  the  shadow — marvelous  two  who  wait 
upon  the  Unseen.  Here  the  Voice  is  clearer,  the  Silence 
deeper.  And  what  we  know  and  what  we  know  not  are 
blended  softly  into — We  wait.  But  I  hear  at  my  feet  the 
sigh  of  a  dropping  flake. 

Leaving  the  hilltops  I  am  come  into  a  deep,  cozy  hol 
low  where  the  accumulated  leaves  of  all  the  foregoing 
years  are  gathered,  and  where  the  moss  is  thick  on  the 
roots  of  oaks  and  elms.  In  such  a  place,  with  the 
thought  of  all  gathered  here,  the  innumerable  dead,  one 
might  wish  to  fall  asleep  as  have  fallen  the  leaves. 

Peace  reigns  here.  A  gray  squirrel  sits  motionless 
watching  me.  Why  should  he  be  afraid  ?  Seen  through 
the  branches  he  was  but  a  part  of  the  gray  lichens  that 
cover  the  tree  trunk.  Certainly  he  has  a  lovely  home  ! 
May  only  friends  go  that  way. 

The  meadowlark  is  with  me,  his   breast  brighter  for 


DECEMBER  107 

the  snow,  his  song  dearer  because  he  knows  the  border 
land  and  the  dreams  that  come  there. 


The  snow  has  passed.  It  is  mild  and  Spring-like, 
with  the  cardinal  singing.  How  he  lures  me  with  his 
song  to  follow  through  the  thickets,  to  lean  on  Quiet 
that  he  may  come  near. 


The  fields  are  smoky.  All  around  the  horizon  lie 
heavy  clouds.  The  sun  sets  red  through  the  oak  wood  ; 
countless  twigs  are  traced  against  the  sky;  some  fine  and 
lace-like,  others  feathery.  One  of  the  greatest  beauties 
of  Winter  is  this  twig  tracery  at  dawn  or  at  sunset.  We 
know  but  part  of  the  beauty  of  a  tree  until  we  see  it 
unclothed. 

And  there  is  something  strangely  soothing  in  the 
voices  of  the  trees  heard  on  a  Winter's  day  in  the  midst 
of  a  deep  wood.  How  poor  seem  the  words  of  men 
when  these  century  sages  speak.  What  wisdom  they 
teach  of  simple  living,  of  simple  faith.  But  they  are 
silent  for  all  who  cannot  understand. 

Sunshiny,  with  the  woodpeckers  calling— who  that 
loves  them  can  stay  in-doors.  Over  the  hill  they  call  to 


io8  DECEMBER 

where  the  leaves  are  crisp  in  the  hollows,  to  where  the 
purple  berries  of  the  greenbrier  hang  in  clusters  and  the 
air  is  sweet  as  old  wine. 


I  thought  as  I  looked  on  the  winding  creek, 
Clear  amber  rippling  on  thro'  snow, 

Here  is  the  beauty  my  soul  doth  seek — 
This  is  the  grace  my  heart  would  know. 

This  is  the  writing  forever  new ; 

God  is  here  in  this  happy  stream  ; 
God  is  here,  as  there  in  the  blue — 

Here  He  tells  of  a  lovely  dream. 


There  is  a  hill,  up  which  the  road  winds  in  gradual 
ascent,  that  overlooks  a  great  expanse  of  flat  country 
where  all  through  the  Winter  the  cornstalks  stand  flut 
tering  their  faded  finery  in  the  wind.  Far  away  is  the 
river,  steel-blue  through  the  leafless  trees.  Patches  of 
Winter  wheat  pencilled  green,  patches  of  broom- grass 
brownish-yellow,  dash  the  scene  with  color.  One  even 
ing,  near  nightfall,  I  sat  there  and  saw  the  mists  rising  to 
meet  the  darkness.  First  a  slender  white  arm  up-raised 
encircling  the  wood  on  the  western  horizon  ;  then,  one  by 
one,  gray  tentacles  thrust  up  while  the  dusk  pressed  them 
down ;  then  a  weight  of  darkness  that  seemed  to  fall 
suddenly  :  chill,  silence,  a  star. 


DECEMBER  109 

The  rabbit-hawk,  as  he  is  called  here,  may  often  be 
seen  in  these  December  days,  circling  in  broad  spirals  or 
hovering  over  some  brier  or  broom-grass  patch.  His 
wings  have  almost  the  reach  of  an  eagle's  :  he  is  the 
very  embodiment  of  grace  and  strength  :  fierce-eyed  as 
a  buccaneer.  But  I  have  seen  him  with  the  crows 
on  his  back  in  most  ignominious  flight,  dodging  this 
way  and  that,  while  his  pursuers  kept  up  a  great  racket, 
calling  their  fellows  to  the  chase.  Once  I  remember  to 
have  seen  him  in  a  fence  corner  with  several  crows  about 
him.  He  had  backed  up  against  the  rails  and  they  were 
having  a  rough-and-tumble  fight  when  the  breaking  of  a 
twig  under  my  foot  startled  them  and  sent  them  swiftly 
away.  The  hawk  was  doubtless  glad  of  the  interruption, 
but  the  crows  were  evidently  brave  in  numbers  and  were 
making  the  feathers  fly. 

I  have  seen  this  hawk,  too,  driven  off  the  field  by  king 
birds—a  pair  swooping  down  and  striking  him  repeatedly 
until  he  found  shelter  in  the  woods. 


To-day  I  have  seen  the  woods  from  my  window 
through  a  blur  of  rain.  I  have  taken  down  my  Aud- 
ubon,  I  have  been  thinking  of  his  life  here.  Of  the  mill 
whose  foundation  timbers  partly  remain,  of  the  bitter 
grind  it  was  to  him  whose  free  spirit  could  not  be 

& 


i  io  DECEMBER 

confined  long  within  walls,  of  his  struggle  here  in  the 
face  of  bitter  poverty  and  misunderstanding.  What  he 
accomplished  is  a  continual  marvel.  How  delightful  is 
his  enthusiasm  over  his  drawing  of  the  Kingfisher,  his 
first  real  drawing  from  Nature.  "  When  I  saw  the  liv 
ing  birds,"  he  says,  "  I  felt  the  blood  rush  to  my  tem 
ples,  and  almost  in  despair  spent  about  a  month  without 
drawing." 

The  old  men  who  remember  him,  as  he  was  in  Hen 
derson,  are  all  gone.  He  was  to  them  a  kindly  enigma. 
He  could  not  make  money,  he  was  a  non-conformist. 
He  had  a  passion  for  the  woods  and  fields,  not  as  a 
hunter,  they  could  understand  a  hunter  ;  but  as  an  inter 
preter,  an  artist,  a  poet,  that  they  could  neither  under 
stand,  nor,  if  it  took  him  much  from  home,  forgive.  He 
is  yet  but  a  name  to  hundreds  here,  but  the  heart  that 
understands,  and  the  trees,  and  the  hills,  will  never 
forget. 

O  holy  hour,  nor  day,  nor  yet  the  night, 
But  beauty  of  their  meeting  past  all  speech. 

Twilight.  The  red  sun  has  slipped  through  the  trees 
beamless.  Just  at  the  zenith  there  is  a  streak  of  lumin 
ous  cloud.  The  wind  rustles  the  dead  leaves.  A  song 
of  minor  strain  is  blown  from  the  lane.  A  sparrow 
flutters  by  and  dives  into  the  hedge  with  a  silvery  good 


DECEMBER 


1 1 1 


night.  A  rail  fence  topping  the  hill  is  drawn  in  broken 
lines  against  the  sky.  A  great  lonesomeness  seems  to 
have  fallen  on  the  fields — a  spirit  of  sadness.  My  heart 
tells  the  rosary  of  its  longings. 


What  a  cheery  fellow  is  the  little  downy  woodpecker ! 
A  drummer  who  in  the  morning — when  frost  sparkles — 
when  the  heart  beats  strong — when  hope  is  high — taps, 
taps,  taps  the  onward  measure  to  better  living,  to  higher 
deeds.  I  want  no  brighter  companion  for  a  Winter  walk. 


Far  in'the  deep  of  the  night 
When  the  curved  moon  is  low 

Cheered  by  an  inner  light 
Over  the  hills  I  go.— 

Out  where  the  tall  gray  trees 
Hold  to  me  welcoming  arms, 

And,  wrapped  in  mysteries, 
Night  has  a  thousand  charms. 


The  time  draws  near.  He  who,  once  on  a  time,  came 
into  the  hill  country  of  a  far  away  land— who  loved  the 
birds— who  was  often  alone— who  called  the  flowers  by 
their  names— who  was  companion  of  the  stars  and  of  the 
fields— cannot  be  forgotten.  The  time  draws  near  when 
many  will  go  into  the  woods  for  pines  and  cedars  with 


ii2  DECEMBER 

which  to  keep  green  His  memory — His  love — His  un 
selfishness.  So  tell  of  Him,  little  trees,  that  men  may 
not  quarrel  over  His  commandments  but  keep  them  in 
His  spirit. 


A     000  757  922    o 


